Thy fingers make early flowers

thy fingers make early flowers

of all things.

thy hair mostly the hours love:

a smothness which

sings, saying

(though love be a day)

do not fear, we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.

always

thy moist eyes at kisses are playing,

whose strangeness much

says; singing

(though love be a day)

for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

to be thy lips is a sweet thing

and small.

Death, thee i call rich beyond wishing

if this thou catch,

else missing.

(though love be a day

and life be nothing, it shall not stop kissing).