Author: MIHAIL (---.esoo.ru)
Date: 02-06-06 23:40
The former post was off topic and was thus removed as it was a violation of our
Great Books & Classics spirit. These forums are being phased out & replaced. Join us at our new
registration-only forums at:
jollyrogerwest.com Great Books forums,
and booksliterature.com Great Books forums.
Please respect that these are Great Books sites. We prefer discussions along the following
Though argument does not create conviction, lack of it destroys belief. C.S. Lewis
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love\'s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol\'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov\'d that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lov\'d, I view in thee,
And thou--all they--hast all the all of me.
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov\'d from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend, time\'s leisure with my moan;
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either\'s woe.
My love is strengthen\'d, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandiz\'d, whose rich esteeming,
The owner\'s tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer\'s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my song.