It is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay,
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.
In vain (alas!) for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.
Who in the spring from the new sun
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phœbus through his veins has shot.
Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.
But vow’d I have, and never must
Your banish’d servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may distrust
The vow I made to love you, too.
© Edmund Waller
READ MORE POEMS BY THIS POET:
- The Battle Of The Summer Islands : Canto 1
- Of My Lady Isabella Playing On The Lute
- To The King On His Navy
- The Story Of Phœbus And Daphne, Applied
- To One Married To An Old Man
- Upon His Majesty’s Happy Return
- The Dancer
- Song – Stay, Phoebus, Stay!
- While I Listen To Thy Voice
- To Mr. Henry Lawes, Who Had Then Newly Set A Song Of Mine