 | Poems and Translations |  |
12
THE RIDDLE.
Why do I my Mistress love?
Tell me why, if any knoweth,
That all Ladies else above
Unto Her my duty oweth.
I confess
Their loveliness:
What then doth my preference move?
Tell me why, if any knoweth,
That all Ladies else above
Unto Her my duty oweth.
I confess
Their loveliness:
What then doth my preference move?
Others are as good and wise,
Some are possibly profounder;
Even to my adoring eyes
Is no saintly halo round her.
I confess
Their worth: no less
Her beyond them all I prize.
Some are possibly profounder;
Even to my adoring eyes
Is no saintly halo round her.
I confess
Their worth: no less
Her beyond them all I prize.
Love, they say, is always blind:
Nay! I see her every failing.
Rather Love is as the wind,—
Comes and goes, and unavailing
'Tis to guess
His waywardness:
She is loveliest, to my mind.
Nay! I see her every failing.
Rather Love is as the wind,—
Comes and goes, and unavailing
'Tis to guess
His waywardness:
She is loveliest, to my mind.
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