Death poems/ page 2 of 560 /
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright?
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
If only we too could discover a pure contained
human place our own strip of fruit-bearing soil
between river and rock. For our own heart always exceeds us
as theirs did. And we can no longer follow it gazing
into images that soothe it into the godlike bodies
where measured more greatly if achieves a greater repose.