To My Heavenly Muse

Woe's to me; the mirth of my yeres I ashy make,
And my muse I, in spite of all the love, forsake.
Woe's to me to let Cupid my grene choyce desdayn:
Her lokes and eies so angelyke, albeit cause pain;
Neyther night nor day coulde envie her beauty hie,
For truth remaynth ded bodyes she cureth, witness I.
Oh, Christ! My hart with the cross stamping never delay,
And I shall be waytyng in my tomb for thy day
When thou hast come to graunt me my heavenly own
Syth souls in heaven as on th’ earth remayn unknown.
Oaths in dark nightes may die, flourish when kept they may:
So pure and greate be he whom she shall have, I say,
To wipe away the fallyng jewels on her cheeks
And bring `long all the smiles of the vales and the peaks.
Both my eies, all the smiles, dear spirit and my hart
Shall be hers wher she goeth; yf she leaveth never they part.
Let me cry and never rest for her rest as a price;
Let her smile, for her smile is pleasant and so nice.

2-3 December 1996

by Montazar AnNayef

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