Death, what hast thou to do with me? So saith
Love, with eyes set against the face of Death;
What have Idone, o thou strong Death, to thee,
That mine own lips should wither from ûiy breath?
Though thou be blind as fire or as the sea,
Why should thy waves and storms make war on me?
Is if for hate thou hast to find me fair,
Or for desire to kiss, if it might be,
My very mouth of song, and kill me there?
So with keen rains vexing his crownless hair,
With bright feet bruised from no delightful way,
Through darkness and the disenchanted air,
Lost Love went weeping half a winter’s day.
And the armed wind that smote him seemed to say,
How shall the dew live when the dawn is fled,
Or wherefore should the Mayflower outlast May?
