Saturday, August 18, 2012

Spenser's Amoretti 63: Saturday Sonnet

Every once in a while, when it seems like everyone in the Renaissance is staggering about under the weight of unrequited love, I pick up Spenser's Amoretti. Below: the words of the poet who actually got the girl.

After long storms and tempests' sad assay,
which hardly I endured heretofore,
in dread of death and dangerous dismay,
with which my silly barke was tossed sore;
I do at length descry the happy shore,
in which I hope ere long for to arrive.
Fair soil it seems from far and fraught with store
of all that deare and dainty is alive.
Most happy he that can at last achieve
the joyous safety of so sweet a rest,
whose least delight sufficeth to deprive
remembrance of all paines which him oppressed.
All paines are nothing in respect of this;
all sorrows short that gain eternal bliss.

[sonnet 63]

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