We think not often of the nose
Too seldom, in fact
It breathes the very stuff of life
And lies at the center of your visage

If one's visage is Beauty incarnate
That nose becomes the peak of perfection
Amid the garden of delight
That is the face of my Beloved

Oh, to breathe the rarefied air that your nose knows
The gentle slope. the peach tint bud of the tip
A flower of life and beauty
Upon thine face, my Beloved