Sonnets VIII

Come to me often, sportive Memory;
Thy hands are full of flowers; thy voice is sweet;
Thine innocent uncareful look doth meet
The solitary cravings of mine eye;
I cannot let thee flit unheeded by,
For I have gentle words wherewith to greet
Thy welcome visits; pleasant hours are fleet,
So let us sit and talk the sand-glass dry.
Dear visitant, who comest, dark and light,
Morning and evening, and with merry voice
Tellest of new occasion to rejoice;
And playest round me in the fairy night
Like a quaint spirit, on the moonlight beams
Threading the mazy labyrinth of dreams.