TO H. F. M.

This is a day for sonnets: Oh how clear

Our splendid cliffs and summits lift the gaze —

If all the perfect moments of the year

Were poured and gathered in one sudden blaze,

Then, then perhaps, in some endowered phrase

My flat strewn words would rise and come more near

To tell of you. Your beauty and your praise

Would fall like sunlight on this paper here.

Then I would build a sonnet that would stand

Proud and perennial on this pale bright sky;

So tall, so steep, that it might stay the hand

Of Time, the dusty wrecker. He would sigh

To tear my strong words down. And he would say:

“That song he built for her, one summer day.”