Fuller the foison faster does it fall, br All great empires aught in due time whither; br Some at zenith may look towering tall, br Wear heady plumes, tufted fancy feather, br Yet, grander they come greater be their gall, br Richer their rot, the rancour getting spread br Right to the citadel’s last standing wall, br To all façades of fame— at fault from red! br br And yet, all youth aught when one day to age, br Yours, O my love, seems to me no skin-deep— br May that be in poet’s languid image, br And scores, each passing year a quantum leap! br An if in mine fond eyes the fault should lie br Imprisoned, would my heart reveal the lie? br br - Sonnets | 20.11.