Trumpet-Praises Like A Priest

Sorry, it has no more love, feelings for the stars above my hearts already crushed got, trampled into powdery dust. Yet-even-now remains a seed a blossom that can't be creased still climbs to heaven on Bindweed; there trumpet-praises like a priest. Chaste-in-chastity vowing to love ah, only one, Him above heart as swollen as rose Prospero true-unto it's self no-alter-ego. There my heart and soul would flower whole as a day of an equal hour twinning round some arching bower climbing-upwards, heavens, tower. All my magic powers disowned, all my evil spells somehow atoned. All doubting thoughts newly answered my whole essence beside Him enraptured.