'When that dead face, bowered in the furthest years, <br />Which once was all the life years held for thee, <br />Can now scarce bid the tides of memory <br />Cast on thy soul a little spray of tears,— <br />How canst thou gaze into these eyes of hers <br />Whom now thy heart delights in, and not see <br />Within each orb Love's philtred euphrasy <br />Make them of buried troth remembrancers?” <br />“Nay, pitiful Love, nay, loving Pity! Well <br />Thou knowest that in these twain I have confess'd <br />Two very voices of thy summoning bell. <br />Nay, Master, shall not Death make manifest <br />In these the culminant changes which approve <br />The love-moon that must light my soul to Love?”<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxvii-the-love-moon/
