My love, I am not farre from thee aparte,
Even shouldst thou journey cross the sea:
For in thy care thou dost take mine own hearse,
And leav'st thy ghost behind to comfort mee.
And love, that ghost doth find a welcome sweet
Within my breste, where for thy dearest sake
I treasure it where once my hearte did beat.
And naught but death from mee this prize shall take
Till thou thyself shalt ask't of mee againe;
Though I do pray thou'lt not make this request--
To parte with it should cause me such sore pain
As scarce I felt since my hearte left my breste.
My deare, believe that I doe need no sign
Or image of thy forme to keep mee true
For as thou know'st, my soule is surely thine
And from this fount my love springs ever newe.
Why need I then no image, thou dost aske.
Sweet life, all nature speaks to mee of thee:
Wherever I do looke she wears thy mask--
In all her beauties thine own charms I see.
But when I looke within, to that fair ghost
Of thee so dearely kept within my breste,
Then Nature pales, and all her gathered host
Doth seem but holow dreames in glamour dress'd.
For thou, my love, my herte, and my dear soule
Art farre more fair than all of Nature's store;
My love for thee has made my marr'd life whole
From Gods own angells I'd not aske for more.
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Copyright
Chris Robertson 1999. All rights reserved.
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