Fools have no means to meet,
But by their feet;
Why should our clay
Over our spirits so much sway,
To tie us to that way?
O give no way to grief, etc.
SEND me some tokens, that my hope may live,
Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest;
Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,
That in my passions I may hope the best.
I beg nor ribbon wrought with thine own hands,
To knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Of new-touch'd youth; nor ring to show the stands
Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain,
So should our loves meet in simplicity;
No, nor the corals, which thy wrist enfold,
Laced up together in congruity,
To show our thoughts should rest in the same hold; No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,
And most desired, 'cause 'tis like the best ;
Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
Within the writings which thou hast address'd. Send me nor this nor that, to increase my store, But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.
No Spring, nor Summer's beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face;
Young beauties force your love, and that's a rape ;
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame ;
Affections here take Reverence's name.
Were her first years the Golden Age? that's true,
But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time;
This is her habitable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles graves; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, or else he is nowhere.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit,
Vow'd to this trench, like an anchorite,
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he; though he sojourn everywhere
In progress, yet his standing house is here;
Here, where still evening is, not noon, nor night;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is Love's timber; youth his underwood;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood;
Which then comes seasonablest when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so old as she;
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with Age's glory, barrenness.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade ;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made; Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at resurrection;
Name not these living death-heads unto me,
For these not ancients but antiques be.
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles to wear out a day.
Since such Love's natural station is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after glowing beauties; so
I shall ebb out with them who homeward go.
IMAGE of her whom I love, more than she,
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me
As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart
The value: go, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is grown too great and good for me.
Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense
Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.
When you are gone, and reason gone with you,
Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all;
She can present joys meaner than you do,
Convenient, and more proportional.
So if I dream I have you, I have you,
For all our joys are but fantastical.
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep, which locks up sense, doth lock out all. After a such fruition I shall wake,
And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make,
Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were spent.
But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;
Alas! true joys at best are dreams enough.
Though you stay here, you pass too fast away,
For even at first life's taper is a snuff.
Filled with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
That time and absence prove
Rather helps than hurts to love.
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation
Against thy strength,
Distance, and length:
Do what thou canst for alteration,
For hearts of truest mettle
Absence doth join and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality,
His mind hath found
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
To hearts that cannot vary
Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
My senses want their outward motion,
Which now within
Redoubled by her secret notion;
Like rich men that take pleasure
In hiding more than handling treasure.
By absence this good means I gain ;
That I can catch her,
Where none can watch her,
In some close corner of my brain.
There I embrace and kiss her ;
And so I both enjoy and miss her.
* It is due to the uncritical reader to point out that this poem is one of those which, though they have been ascribed to Donne, do not appear in the earlier collections of his verse. Grosart unhesitatingly includes it, while Mr E. K. Chambers (Muses' Library Edition) relegates it, with others, to an Appendix, remarking, however, that "the style, rhythm, and thought are all markedly Donne's."
Three Sonnets
(From the section entitled "Holy Sonnets")
I AM a little world, made cunningly
Of elements and an angelic sprite;
But black sin hath betrayed to endless night
My world's both parts, and, oh, both parts must die.
You, which beyond that heaven, which was most high,
Have found new spheres, and of new land can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it, if it must be drowned no more :
But, oh, it must be burnt; alas, the fire
Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler; let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal.
Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay?
Repair me now; for now mine end doth haste;
I run to Death, and Death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and Death before, doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards Hell doth weigh:
Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee
By Thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour myself I can sustain :
|