O joy too high for my low style to show; O bliss, fit for a nobler state than me; Envy, put out thine eyes, lest thou do see What oceans of delight in me do flow. My friend, that oft saw through all masks of woe, Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee; Gone is the winter of my misery, My spring appears, O see what here doth grow! For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine, Of her high heart giv'n me the monarchy; I, I, O I may say that she is mine. And though she give but thus conditionally This realm of bliss, while virtuous course I take, No kings be crowned, but they some covenents make. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEA-GRAVE by SARA TEASDALE ON GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK, THE TEMPLE, SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN by RICHARD CRASHAW THE ANGELUS; HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES IN SAN FRANCISCO, 1868 by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE VIRGIN'S SLUMBER SONG by JOSEPH FRANCIS CARLIN MACDONNELL DIRGE IN WOODS by GEORGE MEREDITH NOW PRECEDENT SONGS, FAREWELL by WALT WHITMAN CANADA by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |