FORGIVE me Cynthia, if (as Poets use, When they some divine Beauty would express) I roses, pinks, or July-flowers do choose: It is a kind of weakness I confess, To praise the great'st perfection by a less: And is the same, as if one strove to paint The holiness or virtues of a Saint. Yet there is a necessity impos'd, For those bright Angels, which we virtues call Had not been known, had they not been inclos'd In precious stones, or things diaphanal: The essences and forms celestial Had been conceal'd, had not the heavenly powers Been stamp'd, and printed on stones, trees, and flowers. So thy divine pure soul, and every grace, And heavenly beauty it doth comprehend, Had not been seen, but for thy lovely face, Which with angel-like features may contend, Which into flesh and blood did down descend, That she her purest essence might disclose In it, as thy fair cheeks do in the Rose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAMATREYA by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE LABORS OF HERCULES by MARIANNE MOORE A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL by JONATHAN SWIFT THE SISTER'S TRAGEDY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TO A GIRL by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS NOT YE WHO GOAD by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON RELEASE by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE SHEPHERD'S PIPE: DEDICATION TO EDWARD, LORD ZOUCH by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |