[the Weary Traveller, Who Tyred, Sought]

The weary Traveller, who tyred, sought
In places distant farre, yet found no end
Of paine or labour, nor his state to mend:
At last with joy is to his home backe brought.
Findes not more ease though he with joy be fraught,
When past is feare content like soules ascend:
Then I, on whom new pleasures doe descend,
Which now as high as first-borne blisse is wrought.
He tyred with his paines, I with my minde;
He all content receiues by ease of lymbs:
I, greatest happinessse that I doe finde,
Beliefe for faith, while hope in pleasure swimmes.
Truth saith 'twas wrong conceit bred my despight,
Which once acknowledg'd, brings my hearts delight.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS

Delivering Poems Around The World

Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...

2/25/2021 8:48:36 AM # 1.0.0.504