seven

Shall I compare thee to that bards tale?
Thou loveliest yet of all the ides of spring.
Spring that tumbles rough though not that budding fail,
which freed from winters hold thy voice spills on wing.
Beacon of heaven, light this summer kingdom undimmed
though rough tears may play across this nurtured face;
should frowning doubt prevail be yet not damned
that troubled place, but be renewed by thy lustrous grace.
No winter shall this summer tale have care to brag
though ancient father unbent pass long untrimmed;
‘ere to wormy earth, Death this mortal dress may drag
this psalm in memoried echoes will sing not dimmed.

That chant eternal which in mortal souls brings life to give,
That chant this prayer on stranger’s shores to heave.

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