The miracle is mine, My Lady.
Do not think your lifted hand,
Your so late simper count. The steady,
Prompted poise of no hoops in the hand
And some hoops in the air surpasses.
This I make for you of rest,
Eye, wrist—a going magic-grace’s
Access neither harms nor much assists.
Grace is to have no need of grace,
And I who send out no prospectus,
Leave no memory, give phase
To fall, in giving mass my little ictus.