At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings, No whit for grief, but noble heart and high With loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs, And takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh; Such good I wish you! Yea, and heartily I am fired with hope of true love's meed to get; Know that Love writes it in his book; for why, This is the end for which we twain are met. Mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings You shall be always wholly till I die; And in my right against all bitter things Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try; Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by (Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret) Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly; This is the end for which we twain are met. And, which is more, when grief about me clings Through Fortune's fit or fume of jealousy, Your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings As wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye. Thus in your field my seed of harvestry Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set; God bids me tend it with good husbandry; This is the end for which we twain are met. Princess, give ear to this my summary; That heart of mine your heart's love should forget, Shall never be: like trust in you put I: This is the end for which we twain are met. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS OF EXPERIENCE: INTRODUCTION by WILLIAM BLAKE SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 32 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ON DIGITAL EXTREMITIES by FRANK GELETT BURGESS EPIGRAM: A LAME BEGGAR by JOHN DONNE A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME [OR, RIME] by BEN JONSON PROMETHEUS UNBOUND; A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |