IF in the summer of thy bright regard 
 For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live 
I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard 
 If other eyes but wintry looks should give; 
Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ 
 O?er burdened Time should drop among the ways, 
And to the unremembering dust commit 
 Beyond the praise and blame of other days: 
The song doth pass, but I who sing, remain, 
 I pluck from Death?s own heart a life more deep, 
And as the Spring, that dies not, in her train 
 Doth scatter blossoms for the Winds to reap, 
So I, immortal, as I fare along, 
Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song.