Sonnet CXCVII:
Go count the violets on April’s breast,
And all the rosy censers swung by June;
Yea, every flower that opens, late or soon,
Till autumn lays the gentle tribe to rest;
Reckon the inmates of each downy nest;
Allot to each its separate dulcet tune;
Mark all the stars that circle with the moon
From the far orient to the farthest west;
Gather together the most glittering toys
That fancy offers to the dreaming mind—
Hope’s clearest visions, rapt and glory-blind;
And thou wilt scantly sum or taste the joys
My love can daily, without seeking, find,
When merest dreams his listless mood employs
