O soul, be patient thou shalt find A little matter mend all this Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.
O soul, be patient thou shalt find A little matter mend all this Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss.
Or when we hark't to nightingales that sang
On dewy eves in spring, did they entice
To gentler love than winter's icy fang?
But of this wonder, what doth most amaze
Is that we know our love is held for praise.
She loves me first because I love her, then
Loves me for knowing why she should be loved,
And that I love to praise her, loves again.
Curs'd tho' I be to live my life alone,
My toil is for man's joy, his joy my own.
His little spring, that sweet we found,
So deep in summer floods is drowned,
I wonder, bathed in joy complete,
How love so young could be so sweet.
Baffled but not dishearten'd she took flight
Scheming new tactics: Love came home with me,
And prompts my measured verses as I write.
And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin'd one,
Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown'd.
Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee:
Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.
Though cold and stark and bare,
The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories