MOre then most faire, full of the liuing fire, <br />Kindled aboue vnto the maker neere: <br />no eies buy ioyes, in which al powers conspire, <br />that to the world naught else be counted deare. <br />Thrugh your bright beams doth not ye blinded guest, <br />shoot out his darts to base affections wound: <br />but Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest <br />in chast desires on heauenly beauty bound. <br />You frame my thoughts and fashion me within, <br />you stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, <br />you calme the storme that passion did begin, <br />stro[n]g thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak. <br />Dark is the world, where your light shined neuer; <br />well is he borne, that may behold you euer.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-viii-3/
