AH! were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such.
So as she shows she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flower.
Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn.
Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be compared to her note;
Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill,
Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat.
Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed
She comforts all the world as doth the sun,
And at her sight the night's foul vapour 's fled;
When she is set the gladsome day is done.
O glorious sun, imagine me the west,
Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
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Comments about this poem (Fawnia by Robert Greene )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- BUT TWO MORE, maqsood hasni
- No selfish lien, hasmukh amathalal
- Time to annihilate, hasmukh amathalal
- Still pray for good, hasmukh amathalal
- Creole, Nassy Fesharaki
- Red Earth, Perveiz Ali
- To Refuse Those Nuts (Decisions Made To .., Lawrence S. Pertillar
- Wash away, Jessica Dehn
- The Thrill Has Gone, Robert Melliard
- सच बात है यही। SACH BAAT, hasmukh amathalal