Poetry Archives

          Julia, I bring
          To thee this ring,
Made for thy finger fit;
          To show by this
          That our love is
(Or should be) like to it.

          Close though it be
          The joint is free;
So, when love’s yoke is on,
          It must not gall,
          Or fret at all
With hard oppression.

          But it must play
          Still either way,
And be, too, such a yoke
          As not too wide
          To overslide,
Or be so straight to choke.

          So we who bear
          This beam must rear
Ourselves to such a height
          As that the stay
          Of either may
Create the burden light.

          And as this round
          Is nowhere found
To flaw, or else to sever:
          So let our love
          As endless prove,
And pure as gold for ever.