The Good-Morrow

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then,
but suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snored we in the seven sleepers den?
'T was so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
which I desired and got, 't was but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
which watch not one another out of fear;
for love all love of other sights controls
and makes one little room an every-where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
let maps to other worlds on worlds have shown;
let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
and true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
where can we find two better hemispheres
without sharp North, without declining West?
What ever dies, was not mix'd equally;
if our two loves be one, or thou and I
love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

John Donne

epithalamium

though the wabe has its uses too,
who in their senses will not prefer
the graceful bumble-bee to the hive
and the honey, rich and preserving,
to the transient rose?

richer than bloom is the candled night,
when a girl outgrows quite decent prettiness
to don the goddess' garb:
vermilion to set off her rosier nails,
anklets and jingly toe-rings to faintly
accentuate her burrowing voice,
kajal less deeply black than her pupil
and silk to envy her hair.

let her walk with you on the sands
with the stable hand restraining the lion,
gracefully nodding her head in dimmed limelight,
while she hands you the swords to swallow
and fire to breathe -
every clap of each hand is hers
for reading your every thought.