My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, <br /> Wherewith whole showls of Martyrs once did burn, <br /> Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry <br />Wear Venus livery? only serve her turn? <br />Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and layes <br /> Upon thine Altar burnt? Cannot thy love <br /> Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise <br />As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove <br />Out-strip their Cupid easily in flight? <br /> Or, since thy wayes are deep, and still the fame, <br /> Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! <br />Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might <br /> Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose <br /> Than that, which one day, Worms, may chance refuse? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><br />George Herbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-i-2/
