Decayde I fynde my favor and my fate
my hope thrown downe from heyght of my desire
And truthe that shoulde have bettred my estate
and made my love to wisshed Joyes asspire
Is undermynde with tongues of foule dyspighte
This frawde cann fynde a waye to master right

My tongue no more shall putt my penn to payne
to blaze in booteles words my discontented mynde
Since thow my Harte haste sighde so longe in vayne
that shall suffice to shew who was unkinde
And for good proofe I still contynewe true
With my laste hope I bydd my Joyes adue

I.

If Pythagorick notions would agree,
With sublimated Christianity;
What mighty Soul, shall I allow,
Informs thy Body now;
For when did such appear,
Sure the belov'd Disciple's Soul is here.
Not us'd since then, but kept above,
And taught a more extatick Love;
The Understanding more inlarg'd and free,
Each generous Faculty
Refin'd, Improv'd, made more compleat,
In the seraphick Seat.

Suddenly he began to torture the flowers
began to twist red winter tulips
faced by the behemothian jaws
for which there is no inevitable IN and OUT.

The carnage at the Menin Gate
the startled blackcock's raucous cry
the Morse code of a boot and crutch
filled the space between river and sky.

But stay! the light is cancelled there
the dark eyes cease
to stare at suns
and light breaks in behind the brain.

I too was present
one of a tufted mat of men
gathered under a high coffer'd ceiling.

Potential
mirror of gentle acts
agents of factual
joy

enjoy
deft engines
but shade yourself
against electric signs.

that in the night
destroy the stars
and lurid phantoms
feature on hotel stairs.

Angelicos
diatoms
of senseful surfeit—
how can man deny you?

He should employ you
whenever
he wakes in the world
out of dusty fever.

and with not worm
and weevil
for whom
God grows stavesacre.

but with bird and lynx
enlarge his life
with crystal lens

After a wet season
the leaves fall early
and bells among the damsel trees
invent the dusk.

We had been discussing
God and Fate and the eternal reflux:
after the white ecstasy of intellect
the axe, the sceptre, the tent people with bright trappings.

Your voice was the voice of the yellow sunflowers
pouring fire into the dusk;
but above your voice the bells were rocking
my heart beating
with the same reiteration.

flux and reflux.

Carried on this singing sea
(my blood)
the curv'd bones of my breast

Lyke as the Princely faulcon on the fyste feedynge
The frindlye hande that serves her ungently straineth
So the fairest alyve on me her Browes bendinge
The faithfull harte that loves her unkindly payneth
As the proude Byrde on wynge with loftye pitch mastring
The wylder game, the profred trayne and lure scorneth
So my fayre Soverayne with Bewty conqueringe
Pursues the stately, and yeldinge mynds disdayneth
But cease in tyme my plaint for feare of dyspleasinge
And goo to her that my affections ruleth
Say that as yett I lyve butt onely in hopinge

Come ev'ry Muse with Fire and Garlands too,
Inspire my Breast adorn Clarinda 's Brow;
(Cypress and Mirtle with the Laurel twine,
Three Boughs of each, with Heavenly skill combine,
The mystick Number suits the sacred Nine,)
She does the force of every Passion tell,
None ever Lov'd, or Greiv'd, or Prais'd so well.
Sometimes she soars aloft a Pindar 's height,
In a bright Track nigh lost to human Sight;
Then gently slides into a softer Strain,
And does with Loves and Graces entertain:
In Panegyricks just to that Degree,

Iff this be love, to fyxe the Eyes onn grownde
To fetch deepe sighes, and softely make my mone
To sheedd not bloode yett have a mortall wounde
To take delighte to muse and walke alone
To burne in flames, yet nott Consume by fyre
Yf this be love, such love desarves his hyre

To feele a harme conceald from whence itt growes
To lyke in harte, yett feare to shewe the same
To seeke releefe from whence I reape my woes
To cloake my inwarde greyfe with outewarde game
To fayne dislik yett languyshe in Desyre

Sonnett

Erect thy flighte on hye with Eagles winges
surmounte the force of Eols fleetinge Bande
Stryve styll beyonde the power off mortall thinges
Untill amidste the lofty heavens thow stande
With Argoes eyes there veue the shapes dyvine
observe their beauties stature forme and grace
And that thow mayste my Mistres well define
of all theire choyse compounde on perfecte face
For lyvely collors reape the fresshest flowers

Early light
beats down

my body is a beaten
silver leaf

If I rise
it will wrinkle
a tinsel pod

a wither'd caul
from the womb of night