Could I have said while he was here,
      "My love shall now no further range;
      There cannot come a mellower change,
For now is love mature in ear"?

Love, then, had hope of richer store:
      What end is here to my complaint?
      This haunting whisper makes me faint,
"More years had made me love thee more.'

But Death returns an answer sweet:
      "My sudden frost was sudden gain,
      And gave all ripeness to the grain,
It might have drawn from after-heat."

Last modified 16 February 2010