When I survey the harvest of the year And from time's threshing garner up the grain, What profit have I of forgotten pain, What comfort, heart-locked, for the winter's cheer? The season's yield is this, that thou art dear, And that I love thee, that is all my gain; The rest was chaff, blown from the weary brain Where now thy treasured image lieth clear. How liberal is beauty that, but seen, Makes rich the bosom of her silent lover! How excellent is truth, on which I lean! Yet my religion were a charmed despair, Did I not in thy perfect heart discover How beauty can be true and virtue fair. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK MONKEY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE BETTER PART by MATTHEW ARNOLD SELF-INTERROGATION by EMILY JANE BRONTE WILLIAM AND HELEN by GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER SONNET: TO HIS LUTE by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN WILL (1) by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX A SONNET. ON THE DEATH OF SYLVIA by PHILIP AYRES |