1 Ye sacred limbs, A richer blazon I will lay On you, than first I found: That like celestial kings, Ye might with ornaments of joy Be always crown'd. A deep vermilion on a red, On that a scarlet I will lay, With gold I'll crown your head, Which like the sun shall ray. With robes of glory and delight I'll make you bright. Mistake me not, I do not mean to bring New robes, but to display the thing: Nor paint, nor clothe, nor crown, nor add a ray, But glorify by taking all away. 2 The naked things Are most sublime, and brightest show, When they alone are seen: Men's hands than angels' wings Are truer wealth even here below: For those but seem. Their worth they then do best reveal, When we all metaphors remove, For metaphors conceal, And only vapours prove. They best are blazon'd when we see The anatomy, Survey the skin, cut up the flesh, the veins Unfold: the glory there remains. The muscles, fibres, arteries, and bones Are better far than crowns and precious stones. 3 Shall I not then Delight in these most sacred treasures Which my great Father gave, Far more than other men Delight in gold? Since these are pleasures That make us brave! Far braver than the pearl and gold That glitter on a lady's neck! The rubies we behold, The diamonds that deck The hands of queens, compar'd unto The hands we view; The softer lilies, and the roses are Less ornaments to those that wear The same, than are the hands, and lips, and eyes Of those who those false ornaments so prize. 4 Let verity Be thy delight: let me esteem True wealth far more than toys: Let sacred riches be, While falser treasures only seem, My real joys. For golden chains and bracelets are But gilded manacles, whereby Old Satan doth ensnare, Allure, bewitch the eye. Thy gifts O God alone I'll prize, My tongue, my eyes, My cheeks, my lips, my ears, my hands, my feet, Their harmony is far more sweet; Their beauty true. And these in all my ways Shall themes become, and organs of Thy praise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHERE THE PICNIC WAS by THOMAS HARDY SONNET, WRITTEN IN JANUARY 1817 by JOHN KEATS THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF 27 B.C. by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS OH, LOVE THOU TOO! by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS SPRING IS NOT THE ASH by MARVIN BARRETT THE DEATH OF YE LIFE OF LOVE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |