Sonnet 54

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:
Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
She laughs and hardens evermore her heart.
What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,
She is no woman, but a senceless stone.

by Edmund Spenser

Comments (15)

Poet's Poet for a reason at least on love. Superb
hey! i'm new to this site can u check my peoms?
This poem reminds me of ancient Upanishadic lore of two birds on a tree. While one our outer self enjoys all the fruits of pain and pleasure our soul looks on be holding us calm and quiet. Ancients wrote with reverence about nature's play. Spencer finds same play frustrating. Enjoyed this version too. closer to our reality!
damn these stony women.
Beautiful piece, well written!
See More