LX.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled
shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes be-
fore,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall
stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
May 15, 2009 at 9:23 pm |
[...] are our brains beguil’d” (59); “And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow” (60); “needy nothing trimm’d in jollity” (66); “Those parts of thee that the [...]