[BNP/E3, 78 – 35]

F.

Sonnet.

Lady, believe me ever at your feet,

When all the Venus in you you condense

Unto a gesture natural and sweet[1],

Full-filled with purity's |white|[2] eloquence.

Your sentient arm so softly did incense

The love of beauty in my soul complete,

That I had given the dearest things of sense

For that your gesture natural and sweet[3].

Genius and beauty, and the things that mar

The love of life with Love's own purest glow,

Out of all thinking, all unconscious are;

And even you, sweet lady, may not know

How much that gesture was to me a star

Leading my bark upon a sea of woe.

Alexander Search.

March, 1907.

[1] sw^/m\eet

[2] |white|^/calm\

[3] sw^/m\eet