The gilded monument, the brazen bust,
That vain men rear to vaunt their fleeting name,
Shall crumble soon to unrememberèd dust,
And be forgotten, like a dying flame.
No epic verse, no storied, grand parade,
Can rescue valor from oblivion’s maw,
For time, with fell intent, hath long purveyed
A final ending to all mortal law.
So let the proud their baseless triumphs hail,
And let their transient glory sound and cease;
Thy constancy, a truth that shall prevail,
Doth grant my soul a measure of its peace.
For in this fealty, all boast I spurn,
And find a solace on my final turn.
Sonnet 26
The perfumed grace of blossoms, rich and fair,
Doth seem a brief and frivolous delight,
For every petal, spent upon the air,
Must soon succumb to time’s despoiling blight.
The gaudy season, with its vibrant hue,
Doth promise much, but cannot long endure,
And leaves behind a melancholy view,
A transient beauty, fragile and impure.
But thy unvarnished worth, a verity,
Doth not depend upon the fickle hour,
Nor is it hostage to the swift decree
Of nature’s unrelenting, changing power.
And thus my heart, to no such law consigned,
Finds its true treasure in thy constant mind.
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