Sonnet XLIX (O THOU! who sleep'st where hazle-bands…)

O THOU! who sleep'st where hazle-bands entwine The vernal grass, with paler violets drest; I would, sweet maid! thy humble bed were mine, And mine thy calm and enviable rest. For never more by human ills opprest Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine: Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign Even in the hour that should have made thee blest. Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast; And lingering here, to Love and Sorrow true, The youth who once thy simple heart possest Shall mingle tears with April's early dew; While still for him shall faithful Memory save Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.