Elizabethan Poetry  16th Century

When Far-Spent Night Persuades Each Mortal Eye

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When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye,
To whom nor art nor nature granteth light,
To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight,
Closed with their quivers, in sleep’s armoury:
With windows ope then most my mind doth lie,
Viewing the shape of darkness and delight;
Takes in that sad hue, which with th’inward night
Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony.
But when birds charm, and that sweet air, which is
Morn’s messenger, with rose-enameled skies,
Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss:
In tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes,
Forced by their lord, who is ashamed to find
Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind.
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