WHEN I too sweet an ardour press Upon my saint's condition, So pitiful is her distress, I straight am all contrition. If suddenly within me move The angels of temptation, She tells me lust is lack of love And weeps for my salvation. So in the difference of kind Our young delight must smother -- O Love, some sweet conversion find At least of one or t'other. Hereafter my desires be cold With saints and gospel-spinners, Or let the time in her behold Its paragon of sinners. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: GEORGE JOSLIN ON LA MENKEN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN A RAILROAD STATION by SARA TEASDALE THE CONFESSIONAL by ROBERT BROWNING NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! by ISAAC MCLELLAN JR. AN EARNEST SUIT [TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORESAKE HIM] by THOMAS WYATT |