Life poems/ page 14 of 844 /
Morpheus the liuely sonne of deadly sleepe,Witnesse of life to them that liuing die:A Prophet oft, and oft in historie,A Poet eke, as humours fly or creepe,Since thou in me so sure a power doest keepe,That neuer I with close vp sense do lie,But by thy worke (my Stella) I descrie,Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe
Like some weake Lords, neighbord by mighty kings,To keepe themselues and their chiefe cities free,Do easly yeeld, that all their coasts may beReady to store their campes of needfull things:So Stellas heart finding what power Loue brings,To keepe it selfe in life and liberty,Doth willing graunt, that in the frontiers heVse all to helpe his other conquerings:And thus her heart escapes, but thus her eyesSerue him with shot, her lips his heralds arre:Her breasts his tents, legs his triumphall carre:Her flesh his foode, her skin his armour braue,And I, but for because my prospect liesVpon that coast, am giu'n vp for a slaue
Goodbye, sir, & fare well. You're in the clear.
'Nobody' (Mark says you said) 'is ever found out.'
I figure you were right,
having as Henry got away with murder
for long. Some jarred clock tell me it's late,
not for you who went straight
Who will believe my verse in time to comeIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?Though yet heav'n knows it is but as a tombWhich hides your life and shews not half your parts:If I could write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say this poet lies,"Such heav'nly touches ne'er touch't earthly faces
Some good people, daring & subtle voices
and their tense faces, as I think of it
I see sank underground.
I see. My radar digs. I do not dig.
Cool their flushing blood, them eyes is shutâ€”
Where art thou, muse, that thou forget'st so longTo speak of that which gives thee all thy might?Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,Dark'ning thy pow'r to lend base subjects light?Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,In gentle numbers, time so idly spent,Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteemAnd gives thy pen both skill and argument
Thus is his cheek the map of days out-wornWhen beauty liv'd and died as flow'rs do now,Before these bastard signs of fair were borneOr durst inhabit on a living brow:Before the golden tresses of the dead,The right of sepulchers, were shorn away,To live a second life on second head,Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay
Those lips that love's own hand did makeBreath'd forth the sound that said, "I hate,"To me that languish't for her sake,But when she saw my woeful state,Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that, ever sweet,Was used in giving gentle doomAnd taught it thus anew to greet
The other two, slight air and purging fire,Are both with thee, where ever I abide;The first my thought, the other my desire,These present-absent with swift motion slide
The little love-god lying once asleep,Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brandWhil'st many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keepCame tripping by, but in her maiden handThe fairest votary took up that fire,Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd,And so the general of hot desireWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd
So are you to my thoughts as food to lifeOr as sweet season'd show'rs are to the ground;And for the peace of you I hold such strifeAs 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found,Now proud as an enjoyer, and anonDoubting the filching age will steal his treasure,Now counting best to be with you alone,Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure,Some-time all full with feasting on your sight,And by and by clean starvèd for a look,Possessing or pursuing no delightSave what is had, or must from you be took
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dim'd,And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature's changing course, untrim'd:But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,Nor shall death brag thou wandr'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,Or you survive when I in earth am rotten