Or doth love spring, like Venus from the sea,

All full attired in radiant panoply

Of heavenly beauty, into perfect prime?

Must love through ripening seasons slowly climb

To tardy blossom; like the aloe-tree,

Unlovely promise of the flower to be?

No! love doth bloom like summer in that clime

Beneath the pole, which knows nor wintry spring

Nor trustful autumn, where 't is ever June

Or bleak December. As some wondrous thing

Should change to glowing sun the pallid moon,

Or tender star that twilight first doth bring,

So love transformeth life from night to noon.

C. T. D.