Sonnet

When time stretched out its hand and beckoned coy,

I sighed and blushed and fluttered with my youth,

And followed swift the red autumnal joy, 

That with its gold deceives the mind as proof.

Yet yonder so the groves began to whither,

And with the rising moon proved naught but pain.

Time binds the hands with rings of traitor silver,

Commitments to pale blush of winter rain.

I lost the sweet repose of tender spring,

Fair Romeo's face I passed as it were stone.

Inconstant moon, I swore by thee as living,

And found thy light alone in Juliet's tomb. 

Love's youthful blush to pallid fate thus drains, 

Ne'er to know the sighs of summer rains.