Poetry is Beauty

When the proud World does most my world despise,

Vaunting what most my human heart must grieve,

Choosing what most I value to disprize,

Deriding that most which I most believe-

When the proud World, I say, does mostoffend

The artless passion of my patient heart,

Til I despair the morrow and make amend,

And before sunset from the sun would part:

Then in my ruin's hour remembrance brings

Faith to my doubt, to my intention grace,

Reminding me how feebly fall such stings

On one whose eyes dared once your eyes to face,

And read in them, what no ill can remove,

The love that to the lover said, 'I love'.Though to your life apparent stain attach,

Yet to my eyes more fair shines its hid fame;

Though tongues repeat what deceived eyes may catch,

Yet to my ears your praise grows, not your blame;

Though of yourself, yourself make ill report,

The voice that speaks, so speaking, counters you;

Though to your heart, your heart impute false sport,

Yet by its height I know it calm and true.

I grow love wise that was but worldly-wise,

My sight is healed by my own bitter tears,

My truth more proved by these disproved lies,

My faith more form for these unfounded fears,

For now I know you never shall deceive

Til my belief your truth shall misbelieve.