Poem In My Pocket

20140429-155131.jpg

Advertisements

1 Comment

  1. Sonnet 14, Sir Philip Sidney

    Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,
    Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire
    Than did on him who first stale down the fire,
    While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
    But with your rhubarb words you must contend
    To grieve me worse, in saying that Desire
    Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire
    Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end?
    If that be sin which doth the manners frame,
    Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,
    Ready of wit, and fearing naught but shame;
    If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed
    A loathing of all loose unchastity,
    Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

    via http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180395

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s