LORD, in my silence how I do despise What upon trust Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes; But is fair dust! I surname them guilded clay, Deare earth, fine grasse or hay; In all, I think my foot doth ever tread Upon their head. But when I view abroad both regiments, The worlds, and thine; Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events; The other fine, Full of glorie and gay weeds, Brave language, braver deeds: That which was dust before, doth quickly rise, And prick mine eyes. O brook not this, lest if what even now My foot did tread, Affront those joyes wherewith thou didst endow, And long since wed, My poore soul, ev'n sick of love; It may a Babel prove, Commodious to conquer, heav'n and thee Planted in me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVER PLEADS WITH HIS FRIENDS FOR OLD FRIENDS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS EPIGRAM ON QUEEN CAROLINE'S DEATHBED by ALEXANDER POPE IN TEMPTATION by CHARLES WESLEY THE COMING OF HIS FEET by LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN CITY AND VILLAGE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON WHITE MOMENTS by KATHARINE LEE BATES |