Sonnet 46
Thy love is a some kind of wonderful,
Breeze beneath wind blowing beauty to bloom.
Across the aisles of air whose arsenal,
Is but my breath bewitched by beauty's broom.
It is her face, that lovely afternoon,
Which leaves me much beguiled to bleed with love.
Yet ears that's clear can hear I'm out of tune,
And she knows not her heart I'm thinking of.
Maybe the moon can move her mind to me,
Giving my frown a glimpse of grin and gold.
But she will never see that shining sea,
Whose width and water's now shall weave to mold.
It is desire that I love her so,
And only Cupid can bring her to know.
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