Not when the buxom form which nature wears Is pregnant with the lusty warmth of Spring; Nor when hot Summer, sunk with what she bears, Lies panting in her flowery offering; Nor yet when dusty Autumn sadly fares In tattered garb, through which the shrewd winds sing, To bear her treasures to the griping snares Hard Winter set for the poor bankrupt thing; Not even when Winter, heir of all the year, Deals, like a miser, round his niggard board The brimming plenty of his luscious hoard; No, not in nature, change she howsoe'er, Can I find perfect type or worthy peer Of the fair maid in whom my heart is stored. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY LADY'S PLEASURE by ROBERT GRAHAM FOR THE BED AT KELMSCOTT by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) ON THE LIFE OF MAN by WALTER RALEIGH THE TWO MASKS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH OFF BARNEGAT by ETHEL LYNN BEERS A PRAYER by WARREN K. BILLINGS |