Two Sonnets

I.

All love-adepts, all faithful hearts who wear

In love's sweet prime — his hour of blossoming —

The full, harmonious colors of his spring,

O think not when they fail ye shall go bare;

Take heart, his very mourning still is fair,

Ay, tho' the world its hail of pity fling,

Cutting as scorn, no meaner, earthlier thing,

Can match the royal robe of Love's despair!

Put on his weeds, then, ye who fear to sleep,

Because ye fear to wake to grief new-blown;

Rise, bear sweet spices to the grave, and weep

Love's balmy tears, there where by Love o'erthrown,

Death leaves but empty cerements in a heap,

And Love for love still rolls away the stone.