WHY do I languish thus, drooping and dull, As if I were all earth? O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth Praise thee brim-full! The wanton lover in a curious strain Can praise his fairest fair; And with quaint metaphors her curled hair Curl o'er again: Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light, Beautie alone to me: Thy bloudy death, and undeserv'd, makes thee Pure red and white. When all perfections as but one appeare, That those thy form doth shew, The very dust, where thou dost tread and go, Makes beauties here. Where are my lines then? my approaches? views? Where are my window songs? Lovers are still pretending, and ev'n wrongs Sharpen their Muse. But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes Still mock me, and grow bold: Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could Finde where it lies. Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit I may but look towards thee: Look onely; for to love thee, who can be, What angel fit? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MAN, THE MAN-HUNTER by CARL SANDBURG LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH HUMAN IGNORANCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SONG IN THE NIGHT by OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 28 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH THE TREE TOAD by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. THE TRIUMPH OF CIVILISATION by EDWARD CARPENTER THE AUTHOR'S HERMAPHRODITE by JOHN CLEVELAND OUT OF THE SHADOWS: AN UNFINISHED SONNET-SEQUENCE 9 by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER JR. |