BLESSED Spirit, thy infant breath, Fitter for the quire of saints Than for mortals here beneath, Warbles joys, but mine complaints -- Plaints that spring from that great loss Of thy little self, sad cross. Yet do I still repair thee by desire Which warms my benumbed sense, but like false fire. But with such delusive shapes Still my pensive thoughts are eased, As birds bating at mock grapes Are with empty error pleased. Yet I err not, for decay Hath but seized thy house of clay, For lo the lively image of each part Makes deep impression on my waxy heart. Thus learn I to possess the thing I want; Having great store of thee, and yet great scant. Oh let me thus recall thee, ne'er repine, Since what is thy fate now, must once be mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VISION by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE END OF THE WORLD by GORDON BOTTOMLEY MY LADY'S PLEASURE by ROBERT GRAHAM O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SA-CA-GA-WE-A; THE INDIAN GIRL WHO GUIDED LEWIS AND CLARK by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR BOSTON by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |