I scarce believe my love to be so pure <br />As I had thought it was, <br />Because it doth endure <br />Vicissitude, and season, as the grass ; <br />Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore <br />My love was infinite, if spring make it more. <br /> <br />But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow <br />With more, not only be no quintessence, <br />But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense, <br />And of the sun his active vigour borrow, <br />Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use <br />To say, which have no mistress but their Muse ; <br />But as all else, being elemented too, <br />Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. <br /> <br />And yet no greater, but more eminent, <br />Love by the spring is grown ; <br />As in the firmament <br />Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown, <br />Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough, <br />From love's awakened root do bud out now. <br /> <br />If, as in water stirr'd more circles be <br />Produced by one, love such additions take, <br />Those like so many spheres but one heaven make, <br />For they are all concentric unto thee ; <br />And though each spring do add to love new heat, <br />As princes do in times of action get <br />New taxes, and remit them not in peace, <br />No winter shall abate this spring’s increase.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-growth/
