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For hopeless, sweet eternity?

What God unhonour'd hitherto in songs,

Or which, that now

Forgettest the disguise

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That Gods must wear who visit human eyes,

Art Thou?

Thou art not Amor; or, if so, yon pyre,

That waits the willing victim, flames with

vestal fire;

Nor mooned Queen of maids; or, if thou 're she,

Ah, then, from Thee

Let Bride and Bridegroom learn what

kisses be!

In what veil'd hymr

Or mystic dance

Would he that were thy Priest advance
Thine earthly praise, thy glory limn?
Say, should the feet that feel thy thought
In double-center'd circuit run,

In that compulsive focus, Nought,

In this a furnace like the sun;

And might some note of thy renown

And high behest

Thus in enigma be expressed:

"There lies the crown

Which all thy longing cures.

Refuse it, Mortal, that it may be yours!

60

70

It is a Spirit, though it seems red gold;
And such may no man, but by shunning, hold.
Refuse it, till refusing be despair;

And thou shalt feel the phantom in thy hair."
Coventry Patmore.

1877.

SONNETS

I

"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON

VENT'S NARROW ROOM".

1

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the whee!, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs

must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 1807.

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SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody

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