The centaur, siren, I forgo; Those have been sung, and loudly, too; Nor of the mixed sphinx I'll write, Nor the renowned hermaphrodite: Behold, this huddle doth appear Of horses, coach, and charioteer, That moveth him by traverse law, And doth himself both drive and draw; Then, when the sun the south doth win, He baits him hot in his own inn. I heard a grave and austere clerk Resolved him pilot both and bark, That, like the famed ship of Trevere, Did on the shore himself laveer. Yet the authentic do believe, Who keep their judgement in their sleeve, That he is his own double man, And, sick, still carries his sedan; Or that, like dames i' th' land of Luyck, He wears his everlasting huke. But, banished, I admire his fate, Since neither ostracism of state Nor a perpetual exile Can force this virtue change his soil; For wheresoever he doth go, He wanders with his country, too. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHRISTMAS AT SEA by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS by MARIA ABDY THE SWALLOWS by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS A VALENTINE by WARREN K. BILLINGS THE DRIED MILLPOND by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: GOD IS MY WITNESS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLITUDE; AN ELEGY by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |