What Others Have Written

Not temperate, a tempest, the rough wind
That shakes the darling buds of May, no plum
Out of the tree of life, tongue of the dumb
Not singing, dreams beneath the tamarind
Now ended, summer buggered, bagged, and binned,
You are the bottom of the barrel, come
To play the fife and slowly bang the drum,
Commending yellow stockings. We have sinned,

So bless me now, with your fierce tears, I pray —
Or curse me with bell, book, and candle. Bless
Us every one, please, for we did not guess
That love would be so hard to master, grey
Would be our colour. I ask, What’d I say?
Tell me. I will not leave you comfortless.