60 . To M.

IF in the summer of thy bright regard

For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live

I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard

If other eyes but wintry looks should give;

Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ

O’erburdened Time should drop among the ways,

And to the unremembering dust commit

Beyond the praise and blame of other days:

The song doth pass, but I who sing, remain,

I pluck from Death’s own heart a life more deep,

And as the Spring, that dies not, in her train

Doth scatter blossoms for the Winds to reap,

So I, immortal, as I fare along,

Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song.