Dwell I with thee, and thou love be,
forgo of best and better glee
That green and grasses, buds and bloom
with seasons soon leads us to tomb.
The earth is full, of signs untold
yet thine poor heart remains still cold
As nightin-gale in tone shall dress,
false raven thou it now will bless.
And posies mask not such decay
nor crypts of roses will me sway;
My heart renewed, my spirit clear
as flesh for stone replaced all fear.
Of gold for fools nor wool so warm
perceive not I as such a charm
for lasting day as long as wide,
awarded God his only bride.
Not hold me fast, thine belt of straw
nor any fancy me will draw.
Seasons may come and turn and fall,
this world does He not hold it all?
Dwell I with thee, my soul forsake?
November still, I shall not shake.
For my delight, lives He in me
in Him I dwell, not I with thee.
In reply to Christopher Marlowe's 'The Passionate Shepherd To His Love' (assignment we had to do for language skills class). It's the first time I'm trying to writing anything so... restricted. I rather like how it turned out, though. (This is the first version.)