Томас Кэмпион (Thomas Campion)

* * *

Fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed,
Flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred:
How can a heart feel heat that no hope finds?
Or can he love on whom no comfort shines?

Fair, I confess there’s pleasure in your sight;
Sweet, you have power, I grant, of all delight;
But what is all to me if I have none?
Churl that you are t’enjoy such wealth alone!

Prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you,
Yet in your looks a heavenly form I view;
Then will I pray again, hoping to find,
As well as in your looks, heaven in your mind.

Saint of my heart, queen of my life and love,
O let my vows thy loving spirit move!
Let me no longer mourn through thy disdain,
But with one touch of grace cure all my pain!

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