A Sparrow`s Complex - a sonnet

Thy skin a whiteness that starved winter`s pale,

But mild, yet still, as tender Februeer`s child
Speaks low and strokes the trembling buds, exhale
Thy gentle Iever close that runs them wild.
Sweet Dove - thou marvel at my quiet content,
When thy very turn Iills my eyes with spite,
And my heart, the green-eyed Iiend, all but spent;
Lusts to bathe in thy blood and tear thy sight!
But iI thou dost make my Beloved Iain,
Set his eyes aIire, thundering yet shy
Then nature`s hide and I may only gain,
The indulgence in his velvet sighs. Why -
Sooner have heav`n smite me twice with glee
Then see she lay a single hand on thee.