How heavy
do I journey on the way,
When what
I seek (my weary travel's end)
Doth teach
that case and that repose to say
'Thus far
the miles are measured from thy friend.'
The beast
that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods
dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by
some instinct the wretch did know
His rider
loved not speed being made from thee:
The bloody
spur cannot provoke him on,
That
sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which
heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp
to me than spurring to his side,
For that
same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief
lies onward and my joy behind.
No comments:
Post a Comment