With Death in the blossoming bowers 
That slays with his merciless sabre the passion of 
flowers. 
 
This pastime had hope for its metre, 
And trust in high God for the tune, 
And passion of sorrow made sweeter 
Than loves of the leafiest June, 
When Artemis’ arrows are fleeter than rays of the 
moon. 
 
My hope in the ocean was founded, 
Nor changed for the wind and the tide ; 
My love by the heaven was bounded, 
And knew not a barrier beside ; 
My faith beyond heaven was grounded, as God to 
abide. 
 
Though death be the stain on our roses, 
The roses of heaven are white ; 
Though day on the world of us closes, 
The stars only dream of the night 
As of music that roars and reposes and dies in 
delight.
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