This day among the days will never stand,
Carven and clear, a shape of fair delight,
With singing lips, and gaze of innocent might,
Crown’d queenwise, or the lyre within her hand,
And firm feet making conquest of a land
Heavy with fruitage; nay, from all men’s sight
Drop far, cold sun, and let remorseful Night
Cloke the shamed forehead, and the bosom’s brand.
Could but the hammer rive, the thunder-stone
Flung forth from heaven on some victorious morn
Grind it to dust! Slave, must I always see
Thy beauty soil’d? Must shining days foregone
Admit thee peer, and wondering new-born
To-morrow meet thy dull eyes’ infamy?