…from the quills of dead white poets
Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
Indeed I must confess,
When souls mix, ’tis an happiness;
But not complete till bodies too combine,
And closely as our minds join;
But half of Heaven the souls in glory taste,
Till by Love in Heaven at last
Their bodies too are plac’d.
Man, as well as I, thou art.
But something ’tis that differs thee and me;
And we must one even in that difference be.
I thee, both as a man, and a woman prize;
For a perfect Love implies
Love in all capacities.
Can that for a true love pass
When a fair woman courts her glass?
Something unlike must in Love’s likeness be.
His wonder is, one, and variety.
For he, whose soul nought but a soul can move,
Does a new Narcissus prove,
And his own image love.
That souls do beauty know,
‘Tis to the bodies help they owe;
If when they know ‘t, they straight abuse that trust,
And shut the body from ‘t, ’tis as unjust,
As if brought my dearest friend to see
My mistress, and at th’ instant he
Should steal her quite from me.