Pray, pardon this inarticulate fool,
Struck dumb gazing upon Venus’ face.
I’ll strive to bestow, with God given tools,
Flowery words to match your Thespian grace;
The tempest past, for ready pen I reach,
Vainly to search for a rhyme to submit
In excuse of silence, or stutt’ring speech,
And to worship thus from paper pulpit;
Oh, sweet Muse, fire of my fevered mind,
Judge me gently and allow me to vie
To once more feel your gentle hand in mine,
And gain one more look in your timeless eyes.
Accept these weak lines of admiration,
For I could not give voice in exaltation.
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