Sonnet Clxvi: Poem by George Henry Boker

Less in myself than thee do I believe.
I know the weakness of my wandering mind;
Its fickle fancies, mounting every wind,
Eager to light, but restless soon to leave.
The morning's joy, at evening makes me grieve;
Today's display, tomorrow finds me blind;
To this hour's grief, the next will be resigned;
Bitter and sweet I hold but as a sieve.
Upon thy constant nature I rely;
To thee all beauty is as sculptured stone,
And any love love-worthy while 'tis shown;
Or how could'st thou my frailties deify,
Descry a worth, and claim it as thy own,
In anything so mutable as I?