Thou sorrow, venom elf: Is this thy play, To spin a web out of thyself To catch a fly? For why? I saw a pettish wasp Fall foul therein, Whom yet thy whorl-pins did not clasp Lest he should fling His sting. But as afraid, remote Didst stand hereat And with thy little fingers stroke And gently tap His back. Thus gently him didst treat Lest he should pet, And in a froppish, waspish heat Should greatly fret Thy net. Whereas the silly fly, Caught by its leg Thou by the throat tookst hastily And hind the head Bite dead. This goes to pot, that not Nature doth call. Strive not above what strength hath got Lest in the brawl Thou fall. This fray seems thus to us. Hell's spider gets His entrails spun to whip-cords thus, And wove to nets, And sets. To tangle Adam's race In's stratagems To their destructions, spoiled, made base By venom things, Damned sins. But mighty, gracious Lord, Communicate Thy grace to break the cord, afford Us glory's gate And state. We'll nightingale sing like When perched on high In glory's cage, thy glory, bright, And thankfully, For joy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CURTAIN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BLESSED VIRGIN, COMPARED TO THE AIR WE BREATHE by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL by JONATHAN SWIFT FANCIES AT NAVESINK: 6 by WALT WHITMAN S. MATTHIAS by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |