Poetry Archives

Like to the sent’nel stars, I watch all night;
For still the grand round of your light
      And glorious breast
            Awake in me an east:
Nor will my rolling eyes ere know a west.

Now on my down I’m toss’d as on a wave,
And my repose is made my grave;
            Fluttering I lye,
      Do beat my self and dye,
But for a resurrection from your eye.

Ah, my fair murdresse! dost thou cruelly heal
With various pains to make me well?
            Then let me be
      Thy cut anatomie,
And in each mangled part my heart you’l see.