Two sonnets to Mary (II)

The flower that's gathered beauty soon forsakes;
The bliss grows feeble as we gain the prize;
Love dreams of joy, and in possession wakes,
Scarce time enough to hail it ere it dies:
Life intermingles, with its cares and sighs,
And rapture's dreams are ended. Heavenly flower!
It is not so with thee! Still fancy's power
Throws rainbow halos round thee, and thine eyes,
That once did steal their sapphire blue from even,
Are beaming on; thy cheeks' bewitching dye,
Where partial roses all their blooms had given,
Still in fond memory with the rose can vie;
And thy sweet bosom, which to view was heaven,
No lily yet a fairer hue supplies.

3 comments:

Arevanye said...

"That once did steal their sapphire blue from *even*"

More lingo? "heaven"?


(Enjoying your blogs, BTW!)

Roger R. said...

One of the criticisms that Clare paced in his day was that his language was obscure. Mmmmmmm... to a countryman of the day probably not, but even then England was becoming metropolitan. In the 21st century irredeemably so. Yes, he used many terms unfamiliar to us, and indeed, played with the language. But the results are sublime.

Nomad said...

'Even' is evening!
You know, that endless, deep, unblemished blue of-- well, of even! I saw it just last night, in a clear corner of the sky. Liquid sapphire.