Sonet 73 Poem by William Alexander

When whiles thy daintie hand doth crosse my light,
It seemes an yuorie table for Loues storie,
On which th'impearled pillars, beauties glorie,
Are rear'd betwixt the Sunne and my weake sight.
Though this would great humanitie appeare,
Which for a litle while my flame allayes,
And saues me vnconsum'd with beauties rayes,
I rather die, then buy my life so deare.
Oft haue I wish'd whil'st in this state I was,
That th'Alablaster bulwarke might transpare,
And that the pillars rarer then they are,
Might whiles permit some hapning rayes to passe:
But if eclips'd thy beauties Sunne must stand,
Then be it with the moone of thine owne hand.