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I WILL that if I say a heavy thing Your tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that spring Has flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet, And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet. Moreover it sounds often well to let One string, when ye play music, keep at fret The whole song through; one petal that is dead Confirms the roses, be they white or red; Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hear As the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were; The sick sound aching in a lifted throat Turns to sharp silver of a perfect note; And though the rain falls often, and with rain Late autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain, I deem that God is not disquieted. Also while men are fed with wine and bread, They shall be fed with sorrow at his hand. There grew a rose-garden in Florence land More fair than many; all red summers through The leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blew Sideways with tender wind; and therein fell Sweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible, As a bird's will to sing disturbed his throat And set the sharp wings forward like a boat Pushed through soft water, moving his brown side Smooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook with pride His deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun's Set face of heat stopped all the songs at once. The ways were clean to walk and delicate; And when the windy white of March grew late, Before the trees took heart to face the sun With ravelled raiment of lean winter on, The roots were thick and hot with hollow grass.

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