“like a haunted house in day-light”

you know, what a poet calls creepy—
subtlety!—for, for you he so sweetly,
confesses—professes true his long love,
and so, honestly, how on can you drive,
and sneak a peak, at what’s going on—

whether high in the sky or earthy and raw;
deep at heart, by him who so truly saw—

with a machination! a motor’s motion;
ration, measure it—or feel it,—strive
to please—who but—your self—from above
he comes to you, for you—with you, ah, nearly
but for the one of most subtle, sight, so dearly—

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