Sonnet CLXXXV:
Hard is the fortune that has cast thy lot
Within the withering circle of my shade.
Alas! poor flower, whom baffled nature made
To add a brightness to her sunniest spot;
And hard for me, who draw thee in the plot,
It is to see thee daily pine and fade
Beneath the shadows of this dreary glade,
That reeks with damp and smells of earthy rot.
Thy fate is sealed. Ah! never more for thee
Shall Spring awaken, or the balmy heat
Of summer rise in flowers about thy feet;
Nor yet shall Autumn crown thy destiny
With goodly fruit; but storms shall ever beat
Around thee, sorrowing from a wintry sea.
