Never my Book's perfection did appeare, Til I had got the name of VILLARS here. Now 'tis so full, that when therein I look, I see a Cloud of Glory fills my Book. Here stand it stil to dignifie our Muse, Your sober Hand-maid; who doth wisely chuse, Your Name to be a Laureat Wreathe to Hir, Who doth both love and feare you Honour'd Sir. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMORY OF APRIL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS WHAT MY LOVER SAID by HOMER GREENE ANDROMEDA by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS A PRIZE RIDDLE ON HERSELF WHEN 24 by ELIZABETH FRANCES AMHERST AN EVENING HYMN by JOSEPH BEAUMONT FOR A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH by THALIA BELL |