Sonnet CCLXVI:
My darling’s brow is classic, low and wide,
A forehead Grecian Helen might have kissed,
In envious homage that her own just missed
Its perfect form—a brow I kiss in pride.
Across her rosy temple’s pulsing side,
A thousand rosy veinlets branch and twist,
As though her heart by deputy kept tryst
With ghostly thoughts, half spirit, half descried.
Under this snowy dome, in council grave,
Meet the ideas that issue grace to me—
Long-suffering almoners of leniency!
And here, for judgment on the faults I have,
Countless as sands beside the roaring sea,
Sits the great soul, to whom my soul is slave.
