HER GIFT IN A GARDEN.
Not for the luckless buds our roots may bear,
Now quite in bloom, now seared and cankered lying,
Will I entreat you, lest they should compare
My sad mortality with the fall of flowers;
But hold with me your chaste communion rare,
And touch with life this mortal case of ours.
For you were born beyond the power of dying:
I die as bounded things die everywhere.