SONNET
That Death shall take and slay me matters not
In truth: for better men are buried under,
And—tut, “what can’t be cured must be endured”!
But I am wild with hate, pray devil’s thunder
May fall on Death though heaven itself glow hot,
Hell-like, and stars be lighted stubble, and worlds
Like birds drop blinded by the bloody light!
O, such a bonfire do I wish for Death
Or ever his insolent envy of sweet breath
Should touch and soil the body of delight—
The singing flame of fragrant holy fire
Which showed to me the meaning of the spring
And every lovely tune musicians bring
Out of the womb of innermost desire!