Sonnet Xx:

XX O sacred head that felt her queenly hand! O regal brow, round which her arms have wound A prouder circle than was ever bound On royal temples! O blest features, fanned By her sweet breath, and warmed by glances bland As dawn's first look! O lips, whose narrow round Has held more bliss than mortals ever found In the wide bounds of Eden--lips that warmed As the soft pressure of her kisses smote A joy too strong for nature through my frame, And a deep sense of conscious guilt and shame At my unworthiness! Ah! shall I dote On my imperfect self, and proudly float, Borne by her glories, far above my fame?