Not like an aging summer 's day,
Or in few pallid lines should get,
thy alluring beauty waste away.
Or in searing gales of may
how thy frail ardor display?
And how can pages pale with time
do justice of thy magnificence sublime?
I envisage a lake of molten sapphire,
which, sprinkled twinkling stars admire.
And in the cynosure a mystic blue lotus I see,
With that shall I compare thee?
