Beauty sat with me all the summer day,
Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;
Nor mark'd I till we parted, how, hard by,
Love in her train stood ready for his prey.

For beauty being the best of all we know
Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims
Of nature.

When first we met we did not guess
That Love would prove so hard a master.

The day begins to droop, -
Its course is done:
But nothing tells the place
Of the setting sun.

Masefield's sonnets? Ah yes. Very nice. Pure Shakespeare. Masefield's 'Reynard the Fox'? Very nice, too. Pure Chaucer. Masefield's 'Everlasting Mercy'? H'm. Yes. Pure Masefield.