Roses, rooted warm in earth, Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep Die; and so their song shall keep.
Wind that in Arcadia starts In and out a couplet plays;
And the drums of bitter hearts Beat the measure of a phrase.
Sweets and woes but come to print Quae cum ita sint.
