 | Poems (1914) |  |
64
Sonetto. 8.
[Of all the bûddes that yeild to men delight]
Of all the bûddes that yeild to men delight,Sweete eglantine that sentest in the aire,
Art worthie pen of gold thy praise to dight:
Thy flowers of bloome make world both green & faire,
To wearied sence thou comfort doth repaire,
Thy pleasure from the eye doth neuer stray,
To fancies hest thou art a stately chaire:
And wounded hartes desire thou canst allay.
More bright then sun thou stand'st in window bay,
And to thy light the sûnne may not come neere,
Thou lasting flower doth euerlasting stay:
O that within thy flowers I might appeare.
As I did passe sweete sent to hart did clime,
O thou sweete branch the sweetnes of my time.
| Poems (1914) | |