Like to the lover under the window of his Love,
I serenade thee, dear World;
For thou art asleep and thou art my Love,
And perhaps thou wilt awake and show me thine eyes
And the beauty of thy face out of the window of thy house of Time.
So large, so blue is Harry's eye,
I think to that blue Heaven the souls do go
Of honest violets when they die.
Says Epictetus, at the close of his Chapter on Præcognitions: "I must speak in this way; excuse me, as you would excuse lovers: I am not my own master: I am mad."
[Credo, and Other Poems]