by John Harrington
How different is our end to our design
How grand the tale to what we should confess
How small our gifts to what we would posssess
How all our ends from all our plans decline
It is as if a mischief intervenes
And stops the hands of him who would do good
And alters what he does from what he could
Confusing what he says with what he means
What hope have we to warden our desire?
Only love, more powerful than we know
For lovers do, like gardens, oft expire
Without good soil, and air, and sun to grow.
You are, my Love, my sun, my soil, my air,
But with you could I accomplish what I dare.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 8:42 AM UTC
by John Harrington
How different is our end to our design
How grand the tale to what we should confess
How small our gifts to what we would posssess
How all our ends from all our plans decline
It is as if a mischief intervenes
And stops the hands of him who would do good
And alters what he does from what he could
Confusing what he says with what he means
What hope have we to warden our desire?
Only love, more powerful than we know
For lovers do, like gardens, oft expire
Without good soil, and air, and sun to grow.
You are, my Love, my sun, my soil, my air,
But with you could I accomplish what I dare.
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