Poems (Cromwell)/Definition
DEFINITION
As clouds lie in the west, My fairest pleasures rest In you, their element Of being. Loath to die, They ornament your sky, Amassed, magnificent.
They shun the realms beyond. Are you not their fond, Fair dwelling by consent Of time? Why should they go And vanish quite, as though They were not all-content?
My pleasures are not love, Else like the clouds above They swiftly would relent. They are mild beauty; dim Resistless thought; and whim, And idle blandishment.
Love is a wilful power, More like the wind or shower In which the cloud is spent. My pleasures only screen The space of light serene In your deep firmament.