The greatest pride of human kind is wit, Which all art out and into method draws; Yet infinite is far exceeding it, And so is chance of unknown things the cause; The feet of men against our feet do move, No wit can comprehend the ways of love. He that direct on parallels doth sail Goes eastward out, and eastward doth return; The shadowed man, whom Phoebus' light doth fail, Is black like him his heat doth overburn; The wheels of high desire with force do move, Nothing can fall amiss to them that love. Vapors of earth which to the sun aspire, As nature's tribute unto heart or light, Are frozen in the midst of high desire, And melted in sweet beams of self-delight, And who to fly with Cupid's wings will prove, Must not bewail these many airs of love. Men that do use the compass of the sea, And see the needle ever northward look, Some do the virtue in the lodestone lay, Some say, the stone it from the North Star took, And let him know that thinks with faith to move, They once had eyes, that are made blind by love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STANZAS; HOOD'S LAST POEM by THOMAS HOOD A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 32 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN A FAREWELL [TO C.E.G.] by CHARLES KINGSLEY THE LUTE OBEYS by THOMAS WYATT THE BOY AND THE FLUTE by BJORNSTJERNE MARTINIUS BJORNSON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 6 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH IN REGENT'S PARK by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB |