The fingers make early flowers of
all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings,saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear, we will go amaying.
the whitest feet crisply are straying.
Always
they moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
says;singing
(thought love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?
To be they lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).