XVI
Beloved, when I read some fine conceit,
Wherein are wrought as in glass
The features love hath made so sweet,
I marvel at so bold an art;
Seeing thou art too dear to praise
Upon the highway where men pass.
For when I seek
To tell the ways
God's hand of tenderness
Hath touched thine earthly part,
Again I hear
Thy first own cry of happiness,
And, sweetest of God's sounds, the dear
Remonstrance of thy giving heart,—
And cannot speak!