Blushes,Those which I saw on your cheeks.Everything about you,Your tangled hair strands,Your messy eyebrows.The bun-like hair.In any dictionary,Perfection should be defined as you.
As I pass through that passage alone.I remember the first time we met there.In that same spot.Not much has changed since then...The same blooming bushes.The same rusty lamppost.The same black dog sleeping on his side, with a dead leaf in his mouth.Everything is here at the same spot.While you are not.
When I behold a forest spreadWith silken trees upon thy head;And when I see that other dressOf flowers set in comeliness;When I behold another graceIn the ascent of curious lace,Which, like a pinnacle, doth shewThe top, and the top-gallant too;Then, when I see thy tresses boundInto an oval, square, or round,And knit in knots far more than I.Can tell by tongue, or True-love tie;Next, when those lawny films I seePlay with a wild civility;And all those airy silks to flow,
Sweet serene sky-like flower,Haste to adorn her bower;From thy long cloudy bedShoot forth thy damask head!New-startled blush of Flora,The grief of pale Aurora,Who will contest no more,Haste, haste to strew her floor!Vermilion ball that's givenFrom lip to lip in heaven,Love's couch's coverlet,Haste, haste to make her bed!Dear offspring of pleased VenusAnd jolly plump Silenus,Haste, haste to deck the hairOf the only sweetly fair!