How should I sing you?—you who dwell unseen
Within the darkest chamber of my heart.
What picturesque and inward-turning art
Could shadow forth the image of my queen,
Sweet, world aloof, ineffably serene
Like holy dawn, yet so entirely part
Of what am I, as well a man might start
To paint his breathing, or his red blood’s sheen.
Nay, seek yourself, who are their truest breath,
In these my songs made for delight of men.