by Jasper Mayne (1604 - 1672)

Time
Language: English 
Time is the feathered thing,
And, while I praise the sparklings of thy looks
And call them rays,
Takes wing,
Leaving behind him as he flies
An unperceivèd dimness in thine eyes.
His minutes, while they're told, do make us old;
And ev'ry sand of his fleet glass
Increasing age as it doth pass,
Insensibly sows wrinkles there
Where flowers and roses do appear.
Whilst we do speak, our fire
Doth into ice expire,
Flames turn to frost;
And ere we can know how our crow turns swan,
Or how a silver snow
Springs there where jet did grow 'ere we can know --
Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.

Since then the Night hath hurled
Darkness, Love's shade,
Over its enemy the Day, and made
The world just such a blind and shapeless thing
As it was before light did from darkness spring --
Since this be so --
Let's number out the hours by blisses,
And count the minutes by our kisses;
Let the heavens new motions feel
And by our embraces wheel;
And whilst we try the way
By which Love doth convey
Soul unto soul,
And mingling so
Makes them such raptures know
As makes them entrancèd lie
In mutual ecstasy,
Let the harmonious spheres in music roll! 

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2009-01-17
Line count: 36
Word count: 211