Synopsis

I will that if I say a heavy thing Your tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that spring Has flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet, And walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet. Moreover it sounds often well to let One string, when ye play music, keep at fret The whole song through; one petal that is dead Confirms the roses, be they white or red; Dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hear As the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were; The sick sound aching in a lifted throat Turns to sharp silver of a perfect n