SONNET FOR A NYMPH If the beauty of thy face Could turn the tempest of the north, What violent gale would issue forth! If summer birds all knew the tune Of lute strings under open moon, What symphony would skies bespeak From every frail and tawny beak! If garlands of the early spring Could quote the fragrance that you bring, Could prism colors, every one Like off the glass the subtle sun From top to toe of this sweet one ... What grateful air would seek more scent; What palette could be better spent?
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