Roses, rooted warm in earth,
   Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
   Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
   Die; and so their song shall keep.

Wind that in Arcadia starts
   In and out a couplet plays;
And the drums of bitter hearts
   Beat the measure of a phrase.
Sweets and woes but come to print
   Quae *** ita sint.