Could I have said while he was here,
'My love shall now no further range;
There cannot come a mellower change,
For now is love mature in ear'?
Love, then, had hope of richer store:
What end is here to my complaint?
This haunting whisper makes me faint,
'More years had made me love thee more.'
But Death returns an answer sweet:
'My sudden frost was sudden gain,
And gave all ripeness to the grain,
It might have drawn from after-heat.'
Next: LXXXII