Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, <br />Uncertain whither from myself to fly, <br />To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sigh <br />Let me devote my heart, which I have found <br />By certain proofs not few, intrepid, sound, <br />Good, and addicted to conceptions high: <br />When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky, <br />It rests in adamant self-wrapt around, <br />As safe from envy, and from outrage rude, <br />From hopes and fears, that vulgar minds abuse, <br />As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude, <br />Of the resounding lyre, and every Muse. <br />Weak you will find it in one only part, <br />Now pierc'd by Love's immedicable dart.<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vi-translated-from-milton/
