To the endless crying eyes, they make of nonsense her capital dress; sweeping through to the following beauty, a catch to downpour of our spring time blossom, locks of veiling dusk. Twice the gold vivid, laden of mismatched, tear of the turmeric, mending a searing account of hubris applying wattle eyes. He never did hold out that hand, in a redress of dawning upon-charm, a commenting to sweet laden eyes, my love for him, addressing of them in capital, through to the whole, murmurous a lucid bind, of pressured hurt, the stolen beauty of my frailly eye.