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,