IF any sense in mortal dust remains 
When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower, 
Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower 
And delicate winy dews, and gain'd the gains 
Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing 
Through half a summer day, for love bestow, 
Then in some warm old garden let me grow 
To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing 
As this. Upon a southward-facing wall 
I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed 
And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey: 
Keep the wasps from me! but before I fall 
Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er two ripe-red 
Girl lips O let me richly swoon away!