XII.
WWHY are all fair things at their death the fairest:Beauty the beautifullest in decay?Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing dayWith ever-new apparelling the rarest?Why are the sweetest melodies all bornOf pain and sorrow? Mourneth not the dove,In the green forest gloom, an absent love?Leaning her breast against that cruel thorn,Doth not the nightingale, poor bird, complainAnd integrate her uncontrollable woeTo such perfection, that to hear is pain?Thus, Sorrow and Death—alone realities—Sweeten their ministration, and bestowOn troublous life a relish of the skies!
WWHY are all fair things at their death the fairest:Beauty the beautifullest in decay?Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing dayWith ever-new apparelling the rarest?Why are the sweetest melodies all bornOf pain and sorrow? Mourneth not the dove,In the green forest gloom, an absent love?Leaning her breast against that cruel thorn,Doth not the nightingale, poor bird, complainAnd integrate her uncontrollable woeTo such perfection, that to hear is pain?Thus, Sorrow and Death—alone realities—Sweeten their ministration, and bestowOn troublous life a relish of the skies!
WWHY are all fair things at their death the fairest:Beauty the beautifullest in decay?Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing dayWith ever-new apparelling the rarest?Why are the sweetest melodies all bornOf pain and sorrow? Mourneth not the dove,In the green forest gloom, an absent love?Leaning her breast against that cruel thorn,Doth not the nightingale, poor bird, complainAnd integrate her uncontrollable woeTo such perfection, that to hear is pain?Thus, Sorrow and Death—alone realities—Sweeten their ministration, and bestowOn troublous life a relish of the skies!
W