Good sir! When I behold thee proud and tall,
Full of thyself, commanding, seeking praise,
Withholding all advance, all kindly phrase,
Thy sullen mouth turn’d downward, and withal
An unforgiving man! Still then I fall
And yearn, and seek, and melt at thy caresses,
Still then I lift my face at thine addresses,
Believe thy flatt’ring words, await thy call…
But Heav’n! when I see thee as one transformed
Rememb’ring not thyself in straits of love—
Angels fall short of thee, nor yet conformed
Is Heaven to our souls, lifted above…
Then hasten not, good sir, to speak a word:
Thy gentle gaze belies thy sullen storms.