Sonnets
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXXVII.
A wingèd God, all-powerful to-day,
As in the ages past, hath brought my heart
At once the joy of Heaven, yet, with black art,
The curse of Hell; combinèd in this lay.
Therewith I must content me on my way,
As love its fate doth to the world impart.
And thou, who mayst from busy thought depart,
To read what I in falt’ring verse shall say:
If thou be young, let Cupid crown thy brow
With myrtle green, like love’s perpetual wreath;
That thou but little of his wrath may know.
Or, if the years shall bind thee in their sheath,
And with old age thy locks do hoary grow,
In Heaven, thou shalt find what was lost beneath.