THE worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold A kind of heaven in his authorities; The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold, Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise; The epicure that eats and drinks all day, Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs; And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day, Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts. But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power, No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss, Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour, And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss: No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be In my Love's service, but to live to thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IRELAND (1847) by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY HARVEST MOON: 1914 by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR by ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST by ALISON RUTHERFORD SUNDAY MORNING by WALLACE STEVENS LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK by ROBERT BURNS LINES FROM A NOTEBOOK - SEPTEMBER 1803 by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |