Were it not better done—the time being Spring—
1
Grim poet, the iron of whose Cromwellian lyre
Is sistered with so soft a lyric string,
To cast dry wisdom crackling on the fire,
And follow the green pathways of desire,
5
Where April flutters like a flying maid;
Though others to the topmost stars aspire—
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade?
To rule wouldst thou?—to be the sorry king
9
Of this poor kingdom of the fool and liar
We call the world; or, a still stranger thing,
Wouldst swink and sweat, and house thee in the mire,
And sell thy strong soul for a captive's hire,
13
While tyrants eat, and hear sweet music played?
Were it not better done—who need inquire?—
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade?
While all is still new blossom and young wing,
17
And life's a flame still mounting higher and higher,
While still Youth's gold is thine to flaunt and fling,
Heed not dim counsels of some shrivelled sire;
Spake he but sooth, upon the funeral pyre
21
One dream shall linger as his ashes fade—
Of Love's plumed feet aflame through brake and brier,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade.
My Prince, what better dream should man require
25
To close his eyes? And I have heard it said
That Death's a garden where we but retire—
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade.