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Outbreak
where is
a mouth for us
who is fleet in
the afternoon
and at night who
is fallen sick
of this new ague
and fever
who continues
Poemas sobre el tema: fever
Poemas sobre el tema «fever» en Poets.by.
Anthropocene
We monkeys dance
with little globes of glass,
get and forget, our getting
a fatal fever.
Love’s alchemy
I dined with her and found
what heat the alchemist
took home in a bottle:
a letter from July,
wind and fever.
How the war ended
The war I mourn
died yesterday of spotted fever.
We sat late disputing
at the burial.
Eclipsed
The Lord, a lamb;
the sun, nothing—
a sheep’s head
with a war bark,
a public hatch,
sad money,
or a hand with
a high fever.
The remains of the cold
The fever & the cold
are odd bedfellows.
Even goldfinches turn down the heat
during their autumn molt.
I lie fallow, letting bloom
a virus that slipped in
under cover of affection
& now withers in the ditch.
Sonnet 119: What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is, by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuk'd to my content,
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.
Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever longing still
My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers;
That being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou Power that canst sever
From me this ill;--
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep