thy fingers make early flowers 
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smothness which
sings, saying 
(though love be a day)
do not fear, we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
always
thy moist eyes at kisses are playing,
whose strangeness much
says; singing
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

to be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death, thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing, it shall not stop kissing).