I close my longing eyes; envisage thee; Reflection manifesting not my hands; Imprisoned lightning, countenanced with fire; Shot through, withal, mine every wish commands’. Extremity, thy tapered waist’s degree; Impossible perhaps, if not sublime; And yet, sublime, thy perfect form–admire This hourglass that so-confoundeth time. Nor could reflected shadowing foresee Such helplessness within, as now … Continue reading Sonnet V: Whatever Thy Perfection Doth Require