IX

And does she love me now as yesterday?
Is love divine indeed, and scorns to wear
The mortal mantle which all else that's fair
Wears here on earth--the livery of decay?
Has use not fretted passion's palm away
In some weak spot? Some tender and most rare
Leaf of the morning withered in the air
Of this hot day? Has not some wandering ray
Fallen on my imperfections, and let slip
A vexing doubt against unworthy me?
Does not my weakness halt, my courage trip?
Shall she not come to loathe me utterly?
Time lays his solemn finger on my lip,
And says austerely, 'Wait, and thou shall see.'