|
What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
|
HE
Exists it in the mind that could be written,
Lip fruits which my rapt heart's fine intent trace?
Love lays I haven't sung, since I was smitten?
Idylls that my love birth to chant thy grace?
Nay, my dear boy; heard as a hymn to God
Greet I thee daily, rich familiar vows,
Adjudging fresh, worn protest pathways trod,
Not unlike when you first did me arouse.
Doth that love which remaineth ever green
E'er think fair youth a requisite for love?
Refusing to take note as strength grows lean,
Seek not ripe seasons to be wary of.
Oh may we catch a view of hope and see
New sound where we think it may muted be.
|
