Twicknam Garden

By John Donne

Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,

Hither I come to seek the spring,

And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,

Receive such blames, as else cure everything,

But O, selfe traytor, I do bring

The spider love, which transubstantiates all,

And can convert Manna to gall,

And that this place may thoroughly be thought

True Paradise, I have the serpent brought,

‘Twere wholsomer for mee, that winter did

Benight the glory of this place,

And that a grave frost did forbid

These trees to laugh, and mocke mee to my face;

But that I may not this disgrace

Indure, nor leave this garden, Love let mee

Some sensless peece of this place bee;

Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here,

Or a stone fountaine weeping out my yeare.

Hither with christall vyals, lovers come

And take my teares, which are loves wine,

And try your mistresse Teares at home,

For all are false, that tast not just like mine;

Alas, hearts do not in eyes shine,

Nor can you more judge womans thoughts by teares,

Than by her shadow, what she weares.

O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee,

Who’s therefore true, because her truth kills mee.

Search by Category

Leave a Reply

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

You are commenting using your 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 )

Connecting to %s