It is not that I love you less, Than when before your feet I lay, But to prevent the sad increase Of hopeless love, I keep away. In vaine (alas!) for everything Which I have knowne belong to you, Your forme does to my fancy bring, And make my old wounds bleed anew. Who in the Spring from the new Sun Already has a Fever got, Too late begins these shafts to shun Which Phoebus through his veines has shot. Too late he would the paine assuage, And to thick shadowes does retire; About with him he beares the rage, And in his tainted blood the fire. But vow'd I have, and never must Your banish'd servant trouble you; For if I breake, you may mistrust The vow I made to love you too. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GRAND ARMY PLAZA by KAREN SWENSON IRELAND (1847) by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY TO MY FRIEND MR. THOMAS FLATMAN, ON THE PUBLISHING OF THESE HIS POEMS by FRANCIS BARNARD (D. 1698) THE DRUG-SHOP, OR, ENDYMION IN EDMONSTOUN by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET |