Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look, That late dismay'd her faithless faith forbore; And wins again her love lost in the lore Of schools and script of many a learned book: For thou what ruthless death untimely took Shalt now in better brotherhood restore, And save my batter'd ship that far from shore High on the dismal deep in tempest shook. So in despite of sorrow lately learn'd I still hold true to truth since thou art true, Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'd: Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue To my life's need more splendid and unearn'd Than hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due. 10 Winter was not unkind because uncouth; His prison'd time made me a closer guest, And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest, Biting all else with keen and angry tooth: And bravelier the triumphant blood of youth Mantling thy cheek its happy home possest, And sterner sport by day put strength to test, And custom's feast at night gave tongue to truth. Or say hath flaunting summer a device To match our midnight revelry, that rang With steel and flame along the snow-girt ice? Or when we hark't to nightingales that sang On dewy eves in spring, did they entice To gentler love than winter's icy fang? 11 There's many a would-be poet at this hour, Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo'd, And o'er his lamplit desk in solitude Deems that he sitteth in the Muses' bower: And some the flames of earthly love devour, Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew'd In the world's wilderness with heavenly food The sickly body of their perishing power. So none of all our company, I boast, But now would mock my penning, coud they see How down the right it maps a jagged coast; Seeing they hold the manlier praise to be Strong hand and will, and the heart best when most 'Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free. 12 How coud I quarrel or blame you, most dear, Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none; Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer, And beauty that my fancy fed upon? Now not my life's contrition for my fault Can blot that day, nor work me recompence, Tho' I might worthily thy worth exalt, Making thee long amends for short offence. For surely nowhere, love, if not in thee Are grace and truth and beauty to be found; And all my praise of these can only be A praise of thee, howe'er by thee disown'd: While still thou must be mine tho' far removed, And I for one offence no more beloved. 13