The first time her lover pledged his devotion, the speaker didn’t feel joy—she felt a flutter of dread. She looked to the moon to loosen what seemed like a rush into binding promises. Quick-loving hearts, she suspected, cool just as fast. And turning inward, she saw nothing worthy: she compares herself to a battered, out-of-tune violin that any good singer would discard after one sour note, fearing she’d only spoil his song. That image sets a mood of anxious humility, of a person braced for rejection. Then the thought snaps into a quiet reversal. She didn’t undervalue herself so much as she misjudged him. A master’s hands can coax perfect strains from a damaged instrument, and a great soul can love fully in a single, decisive stroke. The poem’s close replaces self-doubt with a fragile, wondering trust—not in her own merit, but in his rare capacity to act and adore all at once.
Sonnet 32 - The first time that the sun rose on thine oath — Summary
The first time that the sun rose on thine oath To love me, I looked forward to the moon To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe; And, looking on myself, I seemed not one For such man's love!—more like an out-of-tune Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste, Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. I did not wrong myself so, but I placed A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float 'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,— And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.