Poems | ||
MORNING, MORNING, GIVE TO ME.
Morning—morning, give to me,
In her smiling eyes, to see
Mirrored fair, all day's delights!
For her image, brought by dreams
To my sight, too unreal seems;
Shadow cannot substance be,
And those stars, like midnight's lights,
Cold their radiance beams.
In her smiling eyes, to see
Mirrored fair, all day's delights!
For her image, brought by dreams
To my sight, too unreal seems;
Shadow cannot substance be,
And those stars, like midnight's lights,
Cold their radiance beams.
Let me all her beauty see
That the sun can show to me;
Fairer, can she not be made
By false fancy's hand of air
That to paint her must despair,
Since she can no sweeter be,
And it can but give in shade
All the sunshine shows more fair.
That the sun can show to me;
Fairer, can she not be made
By false fancy's hand of air
That to paint her must despair,
Since she can no sweeter be,
And it can but give in shade
All the sunshine shows more fair.
Poems | ||