Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry;
For he being amorous on that lovely dye
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
But killed, alas, and then bewailed his fatal bliss.
Milton.
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND’S CHILD.
If Death
More near approaches, meditates, and clasps
Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand,