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.