But call to mind a sweeter far than you—
My Prince and Lord, my Beautiful and True,
Whose cheek was burnished with as bright a hue
As decks your leaves, whose eyes were wont to shine
Upon my glowing face like stars benign.
Again I hear the South wind’s murmurs low
Making the earth with life and beauty glow,
But now more icy than the Sarsar’s breath,
In deserts old the minister of death,
Around my worn and wasted frame it sighs,