Had it utterly withered and perished
⁠To rise not again as it set,
Shame were it that Englishmen living
⁠Should read as their forefathers read
The books of the praise and thanksgiving
⁠Of Englishmen dead.

O light of the land that adored thee
⁠And kindled thy soul with her breath,
Whose life, such as fate would afford thee,
⁠Was lovelier than aught but thy death,
By what name, could thy lovers but know it,
⁠Might love of thee hail thee afar,
Philisides, Astrophel, poet
⁠Whose love was thy star?

A star in the moondawn of Maytime,
⁠A star in the cloudland of change;
Too splendid and sad for the daytime
⁠To cheer or eclipse or estrange;