In An Eve Or Seasons Wake
The madness of a mind
Such-are the ironies of love
Such passion as is mine
Angels fallen envious enough;
Lips that in the darkness trace
Sweet phantoms of thy face
Soft like moonlight kissing cheek
Pleasure furtive as is free,
Without the subtleness of time
A rogue so deft no men may see
Till he hath stolen what’s defined
By which we measure mortality;
But in an eve or season’s wake
When nature gowns her glossy ware
I see that time hath touched thy face
But left no measure there,
It is the madness of a mind
To dote of beauty and of time
When men unbreath’d shall never know
Thy time, in presence, as it goes.
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