Sonnets
SONNET VII
Who is she coming, drawing all men’s gaze,
Who makes the air one trembling clarity
Till none can speak but each sighs piteously
Where she leads Love adown her trodden ways?
Ah God! The thing she’s like when her glance strays,
Let Amor tell. ’Tis no fit speech for me.
Mistress she seems of such great modesty
That every other woman were called “Wrath.”
No one could ever tell the charm she hath
For all the noble powers bend toward her,
She being beauty’s godhead manifest.
Our daring ne’er before held such high quest;
But ye! There is not in you so much grace
That we can understand her rightfully.
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