The fingers make early flowers of
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
(though love be a day)
do not fear, we will go amaying.
the whitest feet crisply are straying.
they moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
(thought love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?
To be they lips is a sweet thing
Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).