 | Complete works (1925-27) |  |
93
III
[How canst thou tax my faith of windy change]
How canst thou tax my faith of windy change,Whose heart is knitted to thy tyrant breast?
Thou in whose broad unmeasur'd scope of range
The thought is lost that reckons its unrest!
O false and fair, dishonour'd in thy pride,
What glory is it that will crown thee now?
Speake of a trustless hope, a fancy wide
And wandering as the air, whose noble brow
Is written on and markt with lines of shame,
Is it not thine? And when the saddest tune
Doth soothe the winds with music, and her flame
Pales in the wan cheeke of the weary man,
And night's weake fires are quencht, who then but I
Can plaine of truth, when by thy sin I die?
| Complete works (1925-27) | |