  This day among the days will never stand, Carven and clear, a shape of fair delight, With singing lips, and gaze of innocent might, Crown’d queenwise, or the lyre within her hand, And firm feet making conquest of a land Heavy with fruitage; nay, from all men’s sight Drop far, cold sun, and let remorseful Night Cloke the shamed forehead, and the bosom’s brand. Could but the hammer rive, the thunder-stone Flung forth from heaven on some victorious morn Grind it to dust! Slave, must I always see Thy beauty soil’d? Must shining days foregone Admit thee peer, and wondering new-born To-morrow meet thy dull eyes’ infamy? |
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