Retrospect
ALAS, and I have sungMuch song of matters vain,And a heaven-sweetened tongueTurned to unprofiting strainOf vacant things, which thoughEven so they be, and throughly so,It is no boot at all for thee to know,But babble and false pain.
What profit if the sunPut forth his radiant thews,And on his circuit run,Even after my device, to this and to that use;And the true Orient, Christ,Make not His cloud of thee?I have sung vanity,And nothing well devised.
And though the cry of starsGive tongue before his wayGoldenly as I say,And each from wide Saturnus to hot MarsHe calleth by its name,Lest that its bright feet stray;And thou have lore of all,But to thine own Sun’s callThy path disorbed hast never wit to tame;It profits not withal,And my rede is but lame.
Only that, ’mid vain vauntOf wisdom ignorant,A little kiss upon the feet of LoveMy hasty verse has stayedSometimes a space to plant:It has not wholly strayed,Not wholly missed near sweet, fanning proud plumes above.
Therefore I do repentThat with religion vain,And misconceivèd pain,I have my music bentTo waste on bootless things its skiey-gendered rain:Yet shall a wiser dayFulfil more heavenly way,And with approvèd music clear this slipI trust in God most sweet;Meantime the silent lip,Meantime the climbing feet.