Classic Poem

Sweet wanton thought, who art of beauty borne,
And who on beauty feed'st and sweet desire,
Like taper flee, still circling, and still turne
About that flame that all so much admire,
That heavenly faire which doth out-blush the morne,
Those ivory hands, those threads of golden wire,
Thou still surroundest yet dar'st not aspire.
Sure thou dost well that place not to come neare,
Nor see the majesty of that faire court;
For if thou saw'st what wonders there resort,
The pure intelligence that moves that spheare,
Like soules ascending to those joyes above,
Back never wouldst thou turne, nor thence remove.