SONNET
But now since Death hath certain date, I fling,
Strong in this manhood for a little space,
Gayest defiance in his wrinkled face,
And mock that envious shadowy old king:
Scyther of flowers, plucker of everything
In beauty fair upgrowing; so the place
Thereof knoweth no more the golden grace
That was the pride and savour of its spring.
Spring is not here. But spring is in this heart,
Quick with the blowing buds of lovely mirth
And over-brimmed with love taken and given
When that is withered, let us lie apart
And rock like sleeping babes in cradle of earth,
Dearest, till Doomsday: we have had our heaven.