Sonnets with Slant Rhymes II
Not winter, far too silver and serene,
Say nothing of long nights and bitter frost,
For ours, a love so vigorous and green,
And autumn, arid autumn is a loss,
When death, however golden, claims all trees,
Sends man and beast both doddering off to sleep,
Wild springtime fares no better, quick to please,
But runs too glib and callow to run deep.
Who would attempt love in that which can’t last?
By this same token, summer moves too slow,
Its heat suppressing what would flow as fast
As blood that quickens, slicks and starts to grow.