Judging her beautiful, my judgement is what joys
To find her in my arms.
Judgment is not dour, for how can a judge be dour
When judgement approves of all these charms?
I judge her sweet when she is coy.
I judge her reticent lips the sweetest I know.
I judge her wise—for she says kissing is best
When kissing is slow.
Poorly I judge to ever judge the rest:
If she fears I will love another.
She is poor at judging books.
She fears my judgment if it judges her—
She fears judgment when it smiles and looks.
All the world is hierarchical.
Beautiful less—or more—beautiful.
She fears the more descending to the less,
And since she cannot judge—she can only guess
The beautiful will descend to the less.
Once judgement starts, judgement cannot stop,
And when joy is too familiar, the highest joy must drop.
During the judgment, the judged can only wait.
But judgment is more than judgment—it make things improve.
Judgment and improvement, our fate.
Judgment makes things love.
Everyone judges. Judgment eats what does not judge well.
I love her with open eyes. She closes hers in hell.