In an Eve Or Seasons Wake

The madness of a mind
 Such-are the ironies of love
 Such passion as is mine
Angels fallen envious enough;
 Lips that in the darkness trace
Sweet phantoms of thy face
 Soft like moonlight kissing cheek
Pleasure furtive as is free,
Without the subtleness of time
A rogue so deft no men may see
 Till he hath stolen what’s defined
By which we measure mortality;
 But in an eve or season’s wake
When nature gowns her glossy ware
 I see that time hath touched thy face
 But left no measure there,
It is the madness of a mind
 To dote of beauty and of time
 When men unbreath’d shall never know
 Thy time, in presence, as it goes.