  Ah, Lovelace, what desires have sway In the white shadow of your heart, Which no more measures day by day, Nor sets the years apart? How many seasons for your sake Have taught men over, age by age, “Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage!”— Since that first April when you fared Into the Gatehouse, well content, Caring for nothing so you cared For honor and for Kent. How many, since the April rain Beat drear and blossomless and hoar Through London, when you left Shoe Lane, A-marching to no war! Till now, with April on the sea, And sunshine in the woven year, The rain-winds loose from reverie A lyric and a cheer. |
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