Your work seems but a whim sometimes,
Those labors blessed as they may be:
Unceasing gild of autumn limes,
Unending blue of newest sea.
To think now that this slumber's glaze,
Leads me anon into your grove,
Where I, afraid of every maze,
A-swoon seek traces of your trove.
Beneath your arch should I then slip,
Swept by your hand into a sky,
To cool my hateful heat adrift?
And there I'll meet eternal bliss,
And there, with scorching lids closed tight,
Anew I'll find a tearful gift.