O THAT I were all soul, that I might prove For you as fit a love As you are for an angel; for, I know, None but pure spirits are fit loves for you. You are all ethereal; there 's in you no dross, Nor any part that 's gross: Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn, The vestal relics for a covering drawn. Your other parts, part of the purest fire That e'er Heaven did inspire, Makes every thought that is refin'd by it, A quintessence of goodness and of wit. Thus have your raptures reach'd to that degree In Love's philosophy, That you can figure to yourself a fire Void of all heat, a love without desire. Nor in Divinity do you go less: You think, and you profess, That souls may have a plenitude of joy, Although their bodies meet not to employ. But I must needs confess, I do not find The motions of my mind So purifi'd as yet, but at the best My body claims in them an interest. I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts As joyful as our hearts. Our senses tell us, if we please not them, Our love is but a dotage or a dream. How shall we then agree? you may descend, But will not, to my end; I fain would tune my fancy to your key, But cannot reach to that obstructed way. There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here, Our bodies may draw near: And when no more their joys they can extend, Then let our souls begin where they did end. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BY THE PACIFIC by HERBERT BASHFORD INSTANS TYRANNUS by ROBERT BROWNING ON DIGITAL EXTREMITIES by FRANK GELETT BURGESS THE OLD MAN DREAMS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 64 by PHILIP SIDNEY AN UNANSWERABLE APOLOGY FOR THE RICH by MARY BARBER AN EPITAPH UPON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY by RICHARD BARNFIELD |