John Milton (1608–1674)

O FAIREST flower no sooner blown but blasted,

Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,

Summer’s chief honour if thou hadst outlasted

Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry:

For he being amorous on that lovely dye

That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,

But killed alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss.

Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead

Or that thy corse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,

Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed

Hid from the world in a low delvèd tomb;

Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom?

Oh no! for something in thy face did shine

Above mortality that showed thou wast divine.