The fields, the clouds, the farms and farming gear,
The drifting kine, the scarlet apple trees...
Not of the sun but separate are these,
And individual joys, and very dear;
Yet when the sun is folded, they are here
No more, the drifting skies: the argosies
Of wagoned apples: still societies
Of elms: red cattle on the stubbled year.
So are you not love’ s whole estate. I owe
In many hearts more dues than I shall pay;
Yet is your heart the spring of all love’ s light,
And should your love weary of me and go
With all its thriving beams out of my day,
These many loves would founder in that night.