Sonnet XIV: Youth's Spring-Tribute
On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
And see the newborn woodflowers bashful—eyed
Look through the golden tresses here and there.
On these debateable borders of the year
Spring’s foot half falters; scarce she yet may know
The leafless blackthorn—blossom from the snow;
And through her bowers the wind’s way still is clear.
But April’s sun strikes down the glades to—day;
So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss
Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray,
Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this
Is even the hour of Love’s sworn suitservice,
With whom cold hearts are counted castaway.
