To W. S. (re sonnet XVIII)

If this gives life to me, my Willie dear,
I wonder if it's really me you please:
A life prolonged must mean continued fear
Of libraries in flames, of the decrease
Of literate and interested folk
Or the event of distant viewing screens -
The awful, uninspiring future yoke
Of self-imposed addiction to machines.
And worse than all the horrors named above
You'll show the world a handle to your drives;
Unwittingly you'll sacrifice our love
To stupid scholars' dull dissecting knives -
A corpse without a name I'd rather be
Than ghastly blessed with immortality.

Besides, I don't believe a summer's day,
Though it may be tempestuous, can compare
Unfavourably with people. Does the spray
Of summer rains impair that summer's fair?
True, summer's short. A longer leash would mean
A longer year. Who doesn't love the spring
Or winter's feasts? As summer fruit grows green
We need the sweetness summer's end will bring
And constant repetition of your food,
However excellent the meal may be,
Will surely dull your appetite for good
And just as good and dull you've pictured me...
Be summer's forced inconstancy surpassed
By my free fickleness until the last!