THE CONSTANT HEART
Where brightest starrs are closely sett
Farre out beyonde the voyd;
If Margaret be risen yet
Her looke will hither turne,
I knowe that she will heare it,
And all my trewe heart learne.
But if no resurrection
Unseale her dwellinge low,
If one so fayre must bide her there
Until the trumpe shall blowe,
Nathlesse shall Love outvie Despaire,
(Whilst constant heart is myne)
And, robbed of her perfection,
Be faithfull to her shrine.
At this blythe season bending
Ile whisper to the clodde,
To the chill grasse where shadowes passe
And leaflesse branches nodde;
There keepe my watche, and crye—Alas
That Love may not forget,
That Joye must have swifte ending
And Life be laggard yet!
1882
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