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.