change

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, -
A creature might forget to weep, who bore

The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay

The dark and pillowy cloud, the sallow trees,
Seem o'er the ruins of the year to mourn;
And, cold and hollow, the inconstant breeze
Sobs thro' the falling leaves and wither'd fern.
O'er the tall brow of yonder chalky bourn,
The evening shades their gather'd darkness fling,
While, by the lingering light, I scarce discern
The shrieking night-jar sail on heavy wing.
Ah! yet a little—and propitious Spring
Crown'd with fresh flowers shall wake the woodland strain;
But no gay change revolving seasons bring

Behold what hap Pygmalion had to frame
And carve his proper grief upon a stone;
My heavy fortune is much like the same:
I work on flint, and that's the cause I moan.
For hapless, lo, ev'n with mine own desires,
I figur'd on the table of my heart
The fairest form, the world's eye admires,
And so did perish by my proper art.
And still I toil, to change the marble breast
Of her, whose sweetest grace I do adore,
Yet cannot find her breath unto my rest:
Hard is her heart, and woe is me, therefore.

Whilst youth and error led my wand'ring mind
And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range,
All unawares a goddes chaste I find,
Diana-like, to work my sudden change.
For her no sooner had my view bewray'd,
But with disdain to see me in that place;
With fairest hand, the sweet unkindest maid
Casts water-cold disdain upon my face.
Which turn'd my sport into a hart's despair,
Which still is chas'd, whilst I have any breath,
By mine own thoughts; set on me by my fair,

'Tis hard to love not, whilst to love
Be sad joy, if by lust misled,
Thoughts too sweetly gaze on things
That perforce must change and decay.

Who's the man could savour his fill
Of gold, fame, sceptre, delights, false
Count'nance fair, that a heart he'd
Have sated and all cares might allay?

Love's surely our being's just course,
Aye, but 'tis flesh, from matter wrought,
Praising what knows like inception,
Guiles the soul, for which all's little

If Thee, Beauty real and e'erlasting,

Now every leaf, though colorless, burns bright
With disembodied and celestial light,
And drops without a movement or a sound
A pillar of darkness to the shifting ground.

The lucent, thin, and alcoholic flame
Runs in the stubble with a nervous aim,
But, when the eye pursues, will point with fire
Each single stubble-tip and strain no higher.

O triple goddess! Contemplate my plight!
Opacity, my fate! Change, my delight!
The yellow tom-cat, sunk in shifting fur,
Changes and dreams, a phosphorescent blur.