Sonnet XCIII: "Death clutches at my darling now and then"

Death clutches at my darling now and then,
And leaves a scar, or plucks a tress of hair;
But all the angels make divine repair,
And close the wound, and train the tress again;
So that when she within the sight of men
Stands as before, no tongue can say just where
Death's finger fell, or that she looks less fair,
Or caught a shadow from his dusky ken.
Oh no, her laugh is merry and her eyes
Radiant with life; and that supernal grace
Is still her own--that queenly, swimming pace!
As well might Death in desperate wrath arise,
To slay a Seraph, earth-bound from the skies,
Or on his essence lay a mortal trace!