Lines On Reading Too Many Poets

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 cum ita sint.