Henry King, Bishop of Chichester (Генри Кинг, епископ Чичестерский)

Sonnet. I Prethee Turn That Face Away

I prethee turn that face away
Whose splendour but benights my day.
Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts
Shun the bright rayes which beauty darts.
Unwelcome is the Sun that pries
Into those shades where sorrow lies.
Go shine on happy things. To me
That blessing is a miserie:
Whom thy fierce Sun not warmes, but burnes,
Like that the sooty Indian turnes.
Ile serve the night, and there confin'd
Wish thee less fair, or else more kind. 

1. Upon a Braid of Hair in a Heart sent by Mrs. E. H.
2. An Acknowledgment
3. Psalm I
4. Tell Me No More How Fair She Is
5. The Acquittance

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1887

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