DID not true love disdain to own His spiritual duration, From paper fuel, I might guess Thy love and writing both surcease Together; but I cannot think The life and blood of love is ink; Yet as when Phoebus leaves our coast, (The surface bound with chains of frost,) Life is sustain'd by coarse repast, Such as in spring nauseates the taste; So in my winter, whilst you shine In the remotest tropic sign, Stramineous food, paper and quill, May fodder hungry love, until He re-obtain solstitial hours, To feast upon thy beauty's flowers. The wonders then of Nature we Within ourselves will justify: Or what monumental boast The first world made, the latter lost: Thy pointed flame shall constant 'bide As an eternal pyramid; The never-dying lamp of Urns Revived in my bosom burns: Th' attractive virtue of the North Resembleth thy magnetic worth; And from my scorcht heart, through mine eyes AEtnean flashes shall arise: We shall make good, when more unite, The fable of Hermaphrodite: The spring and harvest of our bliss The ripe and budding orange is; We little worlds shall thus rehearse The wonders of the universe, As a small watch keeps equal pace With the vast Sun's impetuous race. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET TO GEORGE SAND: 2. A DESIRE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE KINGFISHER by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE HOUR OF DEATH by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 2D SERIES: 2. JONATHAN TO JOHN by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 1: 8. DEPARTURE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE |