You, godding my whole white room
as carefully as Christ would do,
loose fingers where, were I a nun,the nape would be--
O love, proceeding,
ripe against a hunger and receding.
Love, you, tetherer of gods to men;
Unusual habit under which
Beauty is blackened and ripe.
O star to my befuddled star, love neither quite
so quickly nor so well.
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