Sonnet

Could I outwear my present state of woe

With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring

Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow

The wan dark coil of faded suffering—

Forth in the pride of beauty issuing

A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers,

Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers

And watered vallies where the young birds sing;

Could I thus hope my lost delight's renewing,

I straightly would command the tears to creep

From my charged lids; but inwardly I weep:

Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing:

This to itself hath drawn the frozen rain

From my cold eyes and melted it again.