Edmund Spenser

(1552 - 13 January 1599 / London / England)

Edmund Spenser Poems

81. Sonnet Lvii 12/31/2002
82. Sonnet Lviii By Her That Is Most Assured To Her Selfe 12/31/2002
83. Sonnet Lx 12/31/2002
84. Sonnet Lxi 12/31/2002
85. Sonnet Lxii 12/31/2002
86. Sonnet Lxiii 12/31/2002
87. Sonnet Lxiiii 12/31/2002
88. Sonnet Lxix 12/31/2002
89. Sonnet Lxv 12/31/2002
90. Sonnet Lxvi 12/31/2002
91. Sonnet Lxvii 12/31/2002
92. Sonnet Lxviii 12/31/2002
93. Sonnet Lxx 12/31/2002
94. Sonnet Lxxi 12/31/2002
95. Sonnet Lxxii 12/31/2002
96. Sonnet Lxxiii 12/31/2002
97. Sonnet Lxxiiii 12/31/2002
98. Sonnet Lxxix 12/31/2002
99. Sonnet Lxxvi 12/31/2002
100. Sonnet Lxxvii 12/31/2002
101. Sonnet Lxxx 12/31/2002
102. Sonnet Lxxxi 12/31/2002
103. Sonnet Lxxxii 12/31/2002
104. Sonnet Lxxxiii 12/31/2002
105. Sonnet Lxxxiiii 12/31/2002
106. Sonnet Lxxxix 12/31/2002
107. Sonnet Lxxxv 12/31/2002
108. Sonnet Lxxxvi 12/31/2002
109. Sonnet Lxxxvii 12/31/2002
110. Sonnet Lxxxviii 12/31/2002
111. Sonnet V 12/31/2002
112. Sonnet Vi 12/31/2002
113. Sonnet Vii 12/31/2002
114. Sonnet Viii 12/31/2002
115. Sonnet X 12/31/2002
116. Sonnet Xi 12/31/2002
117. Sonnet Xii 12/31/2002
118. Sonnet Xiii 12/31/2002
119. Sonnet Xiiii 12/31/2002
120. Sonnet Xix 12/31/2002
Best Poem of Edmund Spenser

My Love Is Like To Ice

My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeal's with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle ...

Read the full of My Love Is Like To Ice

Sonnet Lxxxv

THe world that cannot deeme of worthy things,
when I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter:
so does the Cuckow, when the Mauis sings,
begin his witlesse note apace to clatter.
But they that skill not of so heauenly matter,
all that they know not, enuy or admyre,
rather then enuy let them wonder at her,
but not to deeme of her desert aspyre.
Deepe in the closet of my parts entyre,

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