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Poem by John Donne
DEAR love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream ; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy. Therefore thou waked'st me wisely ; yet My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it. Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths, and fables histories ; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best, Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me ; Yet I thought thee —For thou lovest truth—an angel, at first sight ; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then, I must confess, it could not choose but be Profane, to think thee any thing but thee. Coming and staying show'd thee, thee, But rising makes me doubt, that now Thou art not thou. That love is weak where fear's as strong as he ; 'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have ; Perchance as torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me ; Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come ; then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
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