Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers’ play,
Yet long by th’ absence of the day.
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend!’
Sydneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate’er delight
Can make Day’s forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.
I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish—no more.
Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see;
I seek no further, it is She.