Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 01-13-06 07:30
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Let not my love be call\'d idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confin\'d,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
\'Fair, kind, and true,\' is all my argument,
\'Fair, kind, and true,\' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv\'d alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.
Abortion is advocated only by persons who have themselves been born.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask\'d him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven\'s sun staineth.
O! that you were your self; but, love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself\'s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter\'s day
And barren rage of death\'s eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.