PHILOSOPHERS have measured mountains, Fathom'd the depth of seas, of states, and kings, Walk'd with a staffe to heav'n, and traced fountains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that sound them; Sinne and Love. Who would know Sinne, let him repair Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, His skinne, his garments, bloudie be. Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain To hunt his cruell food through ev'ry vein. Who knows not Love, let him assay, And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike Did set again abroach; then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, Which my God feels as bloud, but I as wine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR LAUREL AND HARDY ON MY WORKROOM WALL by DAVID WAGONER A WINTER PIECE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT IN THIS AGE OF HARD TRYING, NONCHALANCE IS GOOD AND by MARIANNE MOORE NORMAN CRADLE-SONG by VINCENT JAMES O'SULLIVAN IN TIME OF GRIEF by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE AT THE CARNIVAL by ANNE SPENCER IMPROMPTU by FRANCOIS JOACHIM DE PIERRE DE BERNIS THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 24, ASKING FOR HER HEART (2) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |