LORD, in my silence how I do despise What upon trust Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes; But is fair dust! I surname them guilded clay, Deare earth, fine grasse or hay; In all, I think my foot doth ever tread Upon their head. But when I view abroad both regiments, The worlds, and thine; Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events; The other fine, Full of glorie and gay weeds, Brave language, braver deeds: That which was dust before, doth quickly rise, And prick mine eyes. O brook not this, lest if what even now My foot did tread, Affront those joyes wherewith thou didst endow, And long since wed, My poore soul, ev'n sick of love; It may a Babel prove, Commodious to conquer, heav'n and thee Planted in me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST JUDGMENT by JOHN CROWE RANSOM IN TALL GRASS by CARL SANDBURG KEEP A-PLUGGING AWAY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR FEBRUARY IN ROME by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE by ROSSITER JOHNSON THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS: THE LETTER by ALFRED TENNYSON |