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Heaven's seraphs alone Shows the angelic visage he wears, the voice of whom the door post is moved.
His smiles is lined with Silver, golden glow and a caressing glance of bliss. Nothing matches thy Beauty - not even poet.
When he speaks with sweet etiquette, he enshrines the eye's rapture and ire flowers in cold anger.
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Say not of him, he is afraid for he carries a stubborn air and the lights about him serenade the arrival of April-fair.
His lovely face in slumber deep, he calls for an adoring deed from me; An angel does not vainly sleep, not even in his slumber.
Will he never descend from there with the seven heavens in his eyes and charm me with his natural flair? Even wound me with terrible Lies- does he lie at all? I bath myself in wonder. Oh beautiful Angel how art thine.
