To M.

IF in the summer of thy bright regard  
 For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live  
I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard  
 If other eyes but wintry looks should give;  
Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ          
 O’er burdened Time should drop among the ways,  
And to the unremembering dust commit  
 Beyond the praise and blame of other days:  
The song doth pass, but I who sing, remain,  
 I pluck from Death’s own heart a life more deep,          
And as the Spring, that dies not, in her train  
 Doth scatter blossoms for the Winds to reap,  
So I, immortal, as I fare along,  
Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song.