How little recks it where men lie,
When once the moment’s past
In which the dim and glazing eye
Has looked on earth its last,—
Whether beneath the sculptured urn
The coffined form shall rest,
Or in its nakedness return
Back to its mother’s breast!
Death is a common friend or foe,
As different men may hold,...
Give place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain;
My lady’s beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith, ye may it trust,
...
How sick — to wait — in any place — but thine —
I knew last night — when someone tried to twine —
Thinking — perhaps — that I looked tired — or alone —
Or breaking — almost — with unspoken pain —
And I turned — ducal —
That right — was thine —
One port — suffices — for a Brig — like mine —
...
I know a place where Summer strives
With such a practised Frost —
She — each year — leads her Daisies back —
Recording briefly — "Lost" —
But when the South Wind stirs the Pools
And struggles in the lanes —
Her Heart misgives Her, for Her Vow —
And she pours soft Refrains
...
