Brief was the reign of pure poetic truthA race of thinkers next, with rhymes uncouth,And fancies fashion'd in laborious brains,Made verses heavy as o'erloaded wains.Love was their theme, but love that dwelt in stones,Or charm'd the stars in their concentric zones;Love that did erst the nuptial rites conclude'Twixt immaterial form and matter rude;Love that was riddled, sphered, transacted, spelt,Sublimed, projected, everything but felt.Or if in age, in orders, or the cholic,They damn'd all loving as a heathen frolic;They changed their topic, but in style the same,Adored their maker as they wooed their dame.Thus Donne, not first, but greatest of the line,Of stubborn thoughts a garland thought to twine;To his fair Maid brought cabalistic posies,And sung quaint ditties of metempsychosis;"Twists iron pokers into true love-knots,"Coining hard words, not found in polyglots.
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Donne
written byHartley Coleridge
© Hartley Coleridge
