Not Mine Own Fears, Nor The Prophetic Soul
Not
mine
own
fears,
nor
the
prophetic
soul
Of
the
wide
world
dreaming
on
things
to
come,
Can
yet
the
lease
of
my
true
love
control,
Suppos'd
as
forfeit
to
a
confin'd
doom.
The
mortal
moon
hath
her
eclipse
endur'd
And
the
sad
augurs
mock
their
own
presage;
Incertainties
now
crown
themselves
assur'd
And
peace
proclaims
olives
of
endless
age.
Now
with
the
drops
of
this
most
balmy
time
My
love
looks
fresh,
and
Death
to
me
subscribes,
Since,
spite
of
him,
I'll
live
in
this
poor
rhyme,
While
he
insults
o'er
dull
and
speechless
tribes;
And
thou
in
this
shalt
find
thy
monument,
When
tyrants'
crests
and
tombs
of
brass
are
spent.
