Jesterhead
05-10-2010, 03:04 PM
Unthrifty loveliness,
Thou spend thy beauty's legacy
Face both sunshine nor shadow
To prine into thy hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness,
For holded with thy self
Thy sweet self dost deceive.
Now are thoughts thou shall not banish,
For that wound that make my heart groan,
As thou beshrew for that cruel eye hath taken,
Then this garden of ebony, shall recieve,
Eternity's mistress, which would cling to thee forever.
The hunted slave which wounded bosom fits,
The breath of god, in death around thee,
Desolate yet all undaunted, as thou to keep.
Dead to true sorrow as lovely as thee,
When in the chroncircle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest weights,
Then love for as come a lullaby of roses thorn.
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
I see thy antique heart sold as blood for wine,
They had not skill enough for thee as worth to sing
Had eyes to wonder, a mystery of mysteries.
Were my worth creater, that let my heart
Be still blest forever more, within thy spirit,
Which it hath not seen, nor thou then given,
As I then let them pass me by with a dreaming eye.
Which then shall appear a dreadfully green leaf,
Of secret, as to me as dead as thy, to see me lie,
Above thy shallowest soul, as is too dead to appear,
Alive as I cast it away, I see, my love was my decay
Thou spend thy beauty's legacy
Face both sunshine nor shadow
To prine into thy hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness,
For holded with thy self
Thy sweet self dost deceive.
Now are thoughts thou shall not banish,
For that wound that make my heart groan,
As thou beshrew for that cruel eye hath taken,
Then this garden of ebony, shall recieve,
Eternity's mistress, which would cling to thee forever.
The hunted slave which wounded bosom fits,
The breath of god, in death around thee,
Desolate yet all undaunted, as thou to keep.
Dead to true sorrow as lovely as thee,
When in the chroncircle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest weights,
Then love for as come a lullaby of roses thorn.
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
I see thy antique heart sold as blood for wine,
They had not skill enough for thee as worth to sing
Had eyes to wonder, a mystery of mysteries.
Were my worth creater, that let my heart
Be still blest forever more, within thy spirit,
Which it hath not seen, nor thou then given,
As I then let them pass me by with a dreaming eye.
Which then shall appear a dreadfully green leaf,
Of secret, as to me as dead as thy, to see me lie,
Above thy shallowest soul, as is too dead to appear,
Alive as I cast it away, I see, my love was my decay