The Bookshelf

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,

And burn the long-lived phœnix in her blood;

Make glad and sorry seasons, as thou fleets,

And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

To the wide world, and all her fading sweets;

But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

Him in thy course untainted do allow,

For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.

Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

My love shall in my verse ever appear young.