Our passions are most like to floods and streams, The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words must needs discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, dear empress of the heart, The merit of true passion With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion; Since, if my plaints serve not to prove The conquest of your beauty, They come not from defect of love But from excess of duty. For knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection As all desire, yet none deserve, A place in her affection, I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing; When glory recommends the grief, Despair distrusts the healing. Thus those desires that aim too high For any mortal lover, When reason cannot make them die Discretion doth them cover. Yet, when discretion doth bereave The plaints that they should utter, Then your discretion mat perceive That silence is a suitor. Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know, Deserveth double pity. Then misconceive not, dearest heart, My true though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart And sues for no compassion. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TOWARD THE GULF; DEDICATED TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE DANCERS by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY SONNET: 46 by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN; FOR NIGHT AND MORNING by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE SONNET: 60 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |