The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont ... Edited from the autograph manuscript with introduction and notes by Eloise Robinson |
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Loves Mysterie
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Loves Mysterie
The bright inamour'd Yeouth above
I askd, What kind of thing is Love?
I askd ye Saints; They could not tell,
Though in their bosomes it doth dwell.
I asked ye lower Angels; They
Liv'd in its Flames, but could not say.
I asked ye Seraphs: These at last confes'd
We cannot tell how God should be expres'd.
I askd, What kind of thing is Love?
I askd ye Saints; They could not tell,
Though in their bosomes it doth dwell.
I asked ye lower Angels; They
Liv'd in its Flames, but could not say.
I asked ye Seraphs: These at last confes'd
We cannot tell how God should be expres'd.
Can you not tell, whose amorous Eyes
Flame in Love's Sweetest Ecstacies?
Can you not tell whose pure thoughts move
On Wings all feathered with Love?
Can you not tell who breathe & live
No life but what Great Love doth give?
Grant Love a God: Sweet Seraphs who should know
The nature of this Dietie, but you?
Flame in Love's Sweetest Ecstacies?
Can you not tell whose pure thoughts move
On Wings all feathered with Love?
Can you not tell who breathe & live
No life but what Great Love doth give?
Grant Love a God: Sweet Seraphs who should know
The nature of this Dietie, but you?
And who, bold Mortall, more then Wee
Should know, that Love's a Mysterie?
Hid under his owne flaming Wing
Lies Love a secret open thing.
And there lie Wee, all hid in Light,
Which gives Us, & denies Us Sight.
We see what dazells & inflames our Eyes,
And makes them Mighty Love's Burnt-Sacrifice.
Should know, that Love's a Mysterie?
Hid under his owne flaming Wing
Lies Love a secret open thing.
And there lie Wee, all hid in Light,
Which gives Us, & denies Us Sight.
We see what dazells & inflames our Eyes,
And makes them Mighty Love's Burnt-Sacrifice.
| The Minor Poems of Joseph Beaumont | |