LXXX
THOUGH summer showers drown the seeds of love,
And flood the garden where its blossoms bloom;
Though fiery suns do dry the yellow broom
Upon the bank, and parch the field above;
Though autumn’s frost shall nip the flowery grove,
And winter’s snow kill life in nature’s womb;
Though men grow gray, and, tottering, reach the tomb,
And all else die, and life no longer have:
Yet will I guard thee in my bosom, dear,
And seek to gain thy spirit for my own.
For no such prize hath nature to bestow
That could so well disperse the shadow drear,
Or offer to this heart, that ne’er hath grown
Accustomed life without some love to know.