Madonna, let me softly tell you this
Close in your ear, that I may gain a kiss
Coming and going—like the loitering bee
Our flowery poets use in simile—
Making the tale excuse for greater bliss.
Let me … (O, sweet aposiopesis!) …
Tell all you are to me. (That was a miss:
You moved your head.) But listen! (And count three, Madonna.)
Ah, no! … (In case the other jealous is) …
You dwell so high: speech falls in the abyss
(Ears are but suburbs … pleasant, we agree)
Look in my eyes … (Quick!—past thirteen) … and see!
Give me your lips, my heart’s metropolis, Madonna!