When I survey the harvest of the year And from time's threshing garner up the grain, What profit have I of forgotten pain, What comfort, heart-locked, for the winter's cheer? The season's yield is this, that thou art dear, And that I love thee, that is all my gain; The rest was chaff, blown from the weary brain Where now thy treasured image lieth clear. How liberal is beauty that, but seen, Makes rich the bosom of her silent lover! How excellent is truth, on which I lean! Yet my religion were a charmed despair, Did I not in thy perfect heart discover How beauty can be true and virtue fair. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MERSA by KEITH CASTELLAINE DOUGLAS HYMN: FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY: 2 by REGINALD HEBER TO MY EXCELLENT LUCASIA, ON OUR FRIENDSHIP. 17TH JULY 1651 by KATHERINE PHILIPS THE THREAD OF LIFE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI VERSES TO RHYME WITH 'ROSE' (2) by JANE AUSTEN |