And that which governs me to go about I have seen nothing but you.
Doth part his function and is partly blind Everyday
Seems seeing, but effectually is out; Have been your face
For it no form delivers to the heart And every night your hand,
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch: and every road
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Your voice calling me.
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: And every rock and every flower and tree
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight, Has been a touch of you.
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, Nowhere
The mountain or the sea, the day or night, Have I seen anything else but you,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature: Anne
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.
Soneto 113. William Shakespeare A letter to Anne. Langston Hughes