The Muse
She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow: Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace; And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments, In my former days of bliss, Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw, I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height, Through the meanest object's sight; By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustleing. By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness, In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss: The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect. From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this. Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er heaven to mortals lent: Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born, Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee, Though our wise ones call thee madness, Let me never taste of gladness, If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some, too seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them.
George Wither’s other poems:
- From a Satire written to King James I
- For Seasonable Weather
- A Rocking Hymn
- On the Death of Prince Henry
- Prelude (From ”The Shepherd’s Hunting”)
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