Stones from The Quarry | ||
TO M. L.
O blessèd Soul, in whom all gentlest thingsDo meet as at Love's trysting-place: as meet,
In a concerted piece of music sweet,
All instruments, lip-breathèd or with strings;
While each from other gains, and to each brings,
A crescive sweetness, all in all complete;
Or as all hues in union blend and greet
In purest light, more clear than crystal spring's.
If I should call thee “Rose,” the lily might,
Thy next comparative for purity,
Grow jealous; if the violet have right
To claim thy breath, the rose might fetch a sigh
Perfumed, from envy. So, all to unite,
I'll call thee “Self:” what more need you or I?
Stones from The Quarry | ||