Gaze upon me, O Lovely, and beware,
Or as thy frosts unfairly come, rejoice.
Fair-play with fortune will confound Despair
That, hideous with pride, hath shown its voice.
For never-resting, God’s anointed here
Excel: to verse thy numbered days, to bear
This work, to lend thee summer; and to year
Thy days, and keep thee and thy children fair.
In all our seasons, prisoners are we–
As checked, and sapped, and pent, as tyrants fear
All eyes the beauty we distil may see–
Who gift these days to winter they who sneer:
Though thieving Time all substance yet destroys,
We left thee more than wretched Time enjoys.
- David Emeron
The final draft of this sonnet became part
of a short, or possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all: