With How Sad Steps, O Moon

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With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that even in heav’nly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case.
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace,
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, ev’n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

Sir Phillip Sidney

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This page contains a single entry by Ron Moffat published on October 4, 2007 11:27 AM.

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