It is not that I love you less, Than when before your feet I lay, But to prevent the sad increase Of hopeless love, I keep away. In vaine (alas!) for everything Which I have knowne belong to you, Your forme does to my fancy bring, And make my old wounds bleed anew. Who in the Spring from the new Sun Already has a Fever got, Too late begins these shafts to shun Which Phoebus through his veines has shot. Too late he would the paine assuage, And to thick shadowes does retire; About with him he beares the rage, And in his tainted blood the fire. But vow'd I have, and never must Your banish'd servant trouble you; For if I breake, you may mistrust The vow I made to love you too. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST by WILLIAM DUNBAR THE MAIZE by WILLIAM WHITEMAN FOSDICK LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS by JAMES HOGG SOMEBODY'S DARLING by MARIE LA CONTE FRINGED GENTIANS by AMY LOWELL A VISION UPON [THIS CONCEIT] OF THE FAERIE QUEENE (1) by WALTER RALEIGH |