Classic Poem

Never was joy or good that did not soothe
And beget glorying,
Neither a glorying without perfect love.
Wherefore, if one would compass of a truth
The flight of his soul's wing,
To bear a loving heart must him behove.
Since from the flower man still expects the fruit,
And, out of love, that he desireth;
Seeing that by good faith
Alone hath love its comfort and its joy;
For, suffering falsehood, love were at the root
Dead of all worth, which living must aspire;
Nor could it breed desire
If its reward were less than its annoy.

Even such the joy, the triumph, and pleasaunce,
Whose issue honour is,
And grace, and the most delicate teaching sent
To amorous knowledge, its inheritance;
Because Love's properties
Alter not by a true accomplishment;
But it were scarcely well if one should gain,
Without much pain so great a blessedness;
He errs, when all things bless,
Whose heart had else been humbled to implore.
He gets not joy who gives no joy again;
Nor can win love whose love hath little scope;
Nor fully can know hope
Who leaves not of the thing most languished for.

Wherefore his choice must err immeasurably
Who seeks the image when
He might behold the thing substantial.
I at the noon have seen dark night to be,
Against earth's natural plan,
And what was good to worst abasement fall.
Then be thus much sufficient, lady mine;
If of thy mildness pity may be born,
Count thou my grief outworn,
And turn into sweet joy this bitter ill;
Lest I might change, if left too long to pine:
As one who, journeying, in mid path should stay,
And not pursue his way,
But should go back against his proper will.

Natheless I hope, yea trust, to make an end
Of the beginning made,
Even by this sign—that yet I triumph not.
And if in truth, against my will constrain'd,
To turn my steps essay'd,
No courage have I, neither strength, God wot.
Such is Love's rule, who thus subdueth me
By thy sweet face, lovely and delicate;
Through which I live elate,
But in such longing that I die for love.
Ah! and these words as nothing seem to be:
For love to such a constant fear has chid
My heart that I keep hid
Much more than I have dared to tell thee of.