Never was Day so over-sick with showres, But that it had some intermitting houres. Never was Night so tedious, but it knew The Last Watch out, and saw the Dawning too. Never was Dungeon so obscurely deep, Wherein or Light, or Day, did never peep. Never did Moone so ebbe, or seas so wane, But they left Hope-seed to fill up againe. So you, my Lord, though you have now your stay, Your Night, your Prison, and your Ebbe; you may Spring up afresh; when all these mists are spent, And Star-like, once more, guild our Firmament. Let but That Mighty Cesar speak, and then, All bolts, all barres, all gates shall cleave; as when That Earth-quake shook the house, and gave the stout Apostles, way (unshackled) to goe out. This, as I wish for, so I hope to see; Though you (my Lord) have been unkind to me: To wound my heart, and never to apply, (When you had power) the meanest remedy: Well; though my griefe by you was gall'd, the more; Yet I bring Balme and Oile to heal your sore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE INDIAN DANCER by ANNA TILLMAN BOYD MY DOVES by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ON THE OREGON TRAIL by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. LIFE'S MORNING, NOON, AND EVENING by AUDRA POWELL COTTRILLE TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY; A PANEGYRIC ON HIS CORNONATION by JOHN DRYDEN |