OH say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his cemples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curled, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashioned as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground; Enough, after absence ot meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstasy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEDICATION OF THE FIRST SONNETS TO A FRIEND ... by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE SEALS IN PENOBSCOT BAY by KAREN SWENSON PLACES: 4. EVENING (NAHANT) by SARA TEASDALE TO THE SHADE OF PO CHU-I by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE LOVER MOURNS FOR THE LOSS OF LOVE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |