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.)