Sonnets VIII

come nothing to my comparable soul
which with existence has conversed in vain,
O scrupulously take thy trivial toll,
for whose cool feet this frantic heart is fain;
try me with thy perfumes which have seduced
the mightier nostrils of the fervent dead,
feed with felicities me wormperused
by whom the hungering mouth of time is fed:
and if i like not what thou givest me
to him let me complain,whose seat is where
revolving planets struggle to be free
with the astounding everlasting air—
but if i like,i’ll take between thy hands
what no man feels,no woman understands.