Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame; Who seek, who hope, who love, who live, but thee: Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history; If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree; In truth I swear, I wish not there should be Graved in mine epitaph a poet's name: Ne if I would, could I just title make, That any laudº to me thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others' wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CONFESSIONAL by ROBERT BROWNING BRAID CLAITH by ROBERT FERGUSSON TO THE THAWING WIND by ROBERT FROST THE WOLF AND THE DOG by JEAN DE LA FONTAINE ITYLUS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE LOVE'S CHANGE by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH INVITATION TO A PAINTER: 1 by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |