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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SONG, by ANNE COLLINS First Line: The winter of my infancy being over-past Last Line: Can e'er define. Alternate Author Name(s): Collins, An Subject(s): Winter | |||
The Winter of my infancy being over-past When supposed, suddenly the Spring would hast Which useth everything to cheare Which invitacion to recreacion This time of year, The Sun sends forth his radient beames to warm the ground The drops distil, between the gleams delights abound, Ver brings her mate the flowery Queen, The Groves shee dresses, her Art expresses On every Green. But in my Spring it was not so, but contrary, For no delightfull flowers grew to please the eye, No hopefull bud, nor fruitfull bough, No moderat showers which causeth flowers To spring and grow. My Aprill was exceeding dry, therfore unkind; Whence tis that small utility I look to find, For when that Aprill is so dry, (As hath been spoken) it doth betoken Much scarcity. Thus is my Spring now almost past in heavinesse The Sky of pleasure's over-cast with sad distresse For by a comfortlesse Eclips, Disconsolacion and sore vexacion, My blossom nips. Yet as a garden is my mind enclosed fast Being to safety so confind from storm and blast Apt to produce a fruit most rare, That is not common with every woman That fruitfull are. A Love of goodnesse is the cheifest plant therin The second is, (for to be briefe) Dislike to sin. These grow in spight of misery, Which Grace doth nourish and ease to flourish Continually. But evill mocions, currupt seeds, fall here also When[c]e springs prophanesse as do weeds where flowers grow Which must supplanted be with speed These weeds of Error, Distrust and Terror, Lest woe succeed So shall they not molest, the plants before exprest Which countervails these outward wants, & purchase rest Which more commodious is for me Then outward pleasures or earthly treasures Enjoyd would be. My little Hopes of wordly gain I fret not at, As yet I do this Hope retain; though Spring be lat Perhaps my Sommer-age may be, Not prejudiciall, but beneficiall Enough for me. Admit the worst it be not so, but stormy too, Ile learn my selfe to undergo more than I doe And still content my self with this Sweet Meditacion and Contemplacion Of heavenly blis, Which for the Saints reserved is who persevere In Piety and Holynesse, and godly Feare, The pleasures of which blis divine Neither Logician nor Rhetorician Can e'er define. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOOKING EAST IN THE WINTER by JOHN HOLLANDER WINTER DISTANCES by FANNY HOWE WINTER FORECAST by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN AT WINTER'S EDGE by JUDY JORDAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 34 by JAMES JOYCE THE PREFACE TO DIVINE SONGS AND MEDITACIONS by ANNE COLLINS |
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