|
As if I were all earth ? O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth Praise thee brim-full ! The wanton lover in a curious strain Can praise his fairest fair ; And with quaint metaphors her curled hair Curl o’re again : Thou are my lovelinesse, my life, my light, Beautie alone to me : Thy bloudy death and undeserv’d, makes thee Pure red and white. When all perfections as but one appeare, That those thy form doth show, The very dust, where thou dost tread and go Makes beauties here ; Where are my lines then ? my approaches ? views ? Where are my window-songs ? Lovers are still pretending, and ev’n wrongs Sharpen their Muse. But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes Still mock me and grow bold : Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could Finde where it lies. Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit I may but look towards thee : Look onely ; for to love thee, who can be, What angel fit ? |
Source:
Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert.
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 145-146.
 | to Works of George Herbert |
Site ©1996-2001 Anniina Jokinen. All Rights Reserved.
Created by Anniina Jokinen on July 1, 2001.
