O Gentle Year, I’ll not entreat thee stay,
Since now thy face is set to some far land
Not named of men, untrod, a shadow-strand!
And those most powerful prayers that lips could pray
Would not obtain thy tarrying for a day.
Yet, gliding from us with the sliding sand,
Thou shalt not pass till I have kissed the hand
That gave me joys, and took but time away.
Can Love, that of the soul’s delight is born,
Being matched in stature to the soul, increase?
Not so: but Memory, leaning at his side,
Waxes with every rosy draught of morn,
And gathers to her every moon’s full peace,
And dreaming on dark seas of summer, grows deep-eyed.