I do believe each day, the brighter, proves,
Although my eye, steadfastly growing dim,
Yet, with alacrity, to beauty, moves
As love, rekindled, so impassions vim.
The stars, scarce noticed, noticed, brightly shine,
Hence, heavenward, I turn my jaundiced eye
To give what thanks is due, as you are mine
Beyond e'en what yet forces prudes to sigh.
But, Love, should you grow weary, let me know,
As I would fix us, or else take my leave
To kiss the mouth of misery or woe
As I rebuke fond sentiment to greieve.
I'd find no joy in past, outrageous bliss,
Were I to disenchant your love or kiss.