In ere of a dream, I am not but ruminating. Yet, is not life that deceives me; instead it is the merit of love. For the stars are not in my eyes, and cordiality is lost in my voice. To this, I so ever conjure, if I merit perfection. For in her delicacy, she paints her face on the sun, And in her mind, mermaids sail in the sky. But I, just a lowly man should be ignorant of this love. That a beauty of this sort should surrender to devotion. Yet, as I lay, encompassed without justification. This same angel takes my hand to heaven.