Sonnet Ccxxxii:

Now infant nature, just awaking, lies Warm in the hollow of thy matron lap, O dove-eyed Spring, and doubt might stand agape, To see life quicken in a thing that dies. No greater miracle foretell the wise About the resurrection, that, mayhap, Will startle us, when icy Death shall snap His iron fetters, and our souls arise. Ah! but you cry, this nature leaves behind The linked being of its former life- A root, a seed, a something ever rife. How know we then what seed may sow the wind, And float through ages, when the mortal strife Has set our viewless atoms unconfined?