March 20, 2014

Spring




I scarce believe my love to be so pure
   As I had thought it was,
   Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make’ it more.

But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. ...

And yet no greater, but more eminent,
   Love by the spring is grown;
   As, in the firmament,
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love’s awakened root do bud out now.

from 'Love's Growth,' by John Donne
 
Peter sends some of these lines to Harriet in Thrones, Dominations, and since I liked them very much, I saved them for us, for today.
 
 
 {The painting is 'Window Seat in the Artist's Home at Lyngby,'
by Carl Vilhelm Holsoe.}

2 comments:

Claire (The Captive Reader) said...

Lovely.

fleurfisher said...

That is lovely, and your timing is impeccable. Thank you,