NINETEEN SONNETS(OLD STYLE)
And this my hope sits high for time must pass,Made up of seconds, minutes, hours and days,-- Horology recorded on the grassIn dial shadow where the Sunlight plays:And things that mattered more give place by placeTo things that matter less, and less, and less;And all the World and all that it embraceStamps each successive day with less impress.Yet Time the coiner, with recurring beat,No false nor counterfeit presentment mints,But just alloy of sorrow and defeatWith purest gold of love and patience prints,That one day shall be uttered proof aboveAll base and flattering currency of love.
