Classic Poem

Often the day had a most joyful morn
That bringeth grief at last
Unto the human heart which deemed all well:
Of a sweet seed the fruit was often born
That hath a bitter taste:
Of mine own knowledge, oft it thus befell.
I say it for myself, who, foolishly
Expectant of all joy,
Triumphing undertook
To love a lady proud and beautiful,
For one poor glance vouchsafed in mirth to me:
Wherefrom sprang all annoy:
For, since the day Love shook
My heart, she ever hath been cold and cruel.

Well thought I to possess my joy complete
When that sweet look of hers
I felt upon me, amorous and kind:
Now is my hope even underneath my feet.
And still the arrow stirs
Within my heart—(oh hurt no skill can bind!)—
Which through mine eyes found entrance cunningly!
In manner as through glass
Light pierces from the sun,
And breaks it not, but wins its way beyond,—
As into an unaltered mirror, free
And still, some shape may pass.
Yet has my heart begun
To break, methinks, for I on death grow fond.

But, even though death were longed for, the sharp wound
I have might yet be heal'd,
And I not altogether sink to death.
In mine own foolishness the curse I found,
Who foolish faith did yield
Unto mine eyes, in hope that sickeneth.
Yet might love still exult and not be sad—
(For some such utterance
Is at my secret heart)—
If from herself the cure it could obtain,—
Who hath indeed the power Achilles had,
To wit, that of his lance
The wound could by no art
Be closed till it were touched therewith again.

So must I needs appeal for pity now
From her on her own fault,
And in my prayer put meek humility:
For certes her much worth will not allow
That anything be call'd
Treacherousness in such an one as she,
In whom is judgement and true excellence.
Wherefore I cry for grace;
Not doubting that all good,
Joy, wisdom, pity, must from her be shed;
For scarcely should it deal in death's offence,
The so-belovèd face
So watched for; rather should
All death and ill be thereby subjected.

And since, in hope of mercy, I have bent
Unto her ordinance
Humbly my heart, my body, and my life,
Giving her perfect power acknowledgement,—
I think some kinder glance
She'll deign, and, in mere pity, pause from strife.
She surely shall enact the good lord's part:
When one whom force compels
Doth yield, he is pacified,
Forgiving him therein where he did err.
Ah! well I know she hath the noble heart
Which in the lion quells
Obduracy of pride;
Whose nobleness is for a crown on her.