WHEREIN HE CHERISHES THE HOPE THAT HIS LADY MAY RELENT WITH TIME

If, from the points of pain, my life persuade,
Dear Lady, grace enough, enough of years,
Reprieve enough to see through my dark tears
The brilliant energy of those eyes fade,
The fine gold of that hair with silver sprayed,
The garlands dust, the green robes in arrears,
And that face colourless which, filled with fears
Of mortal wounds, my long lament delayed —
Through Love then will such courage in me live
That I will naked show those martyrdoms
The years have daily given and hourly give;
And, though that time feed passion but few crumbs
And cold, still some late sighs that breast may feel
And late, too late, upon my anguish steal!