THis holy season fit to fast and pray, <br />Men to deuotion ought to be inclynd: <br />therefore, I lykewise on so holy day, <br />for my sweet Saynt some seruice fit will find. <br />Her temple fayre is built within my mind, <br />in which her glorious ymage placed is, <br />on which my thoughts doo day and night attend <br />lyke sacred priests that neuer thinke amisse. <br />There I to her as th'author of my blisse, <br />will builde an altar to appease her yre: <br />and on the same my hart will sacrifise, <br />burning in flames of pure and chast desyre: <br />The which vouchsafe O goddesse to accept, <br />amongst thy deerest relicks to be kept.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxii-2/
