The Amaranth

Feasts satiate; stars distress with height;
Friendship means well, but misses reach,
And wearies in its best delight,
Vex’d with the vanities of speech;
Too long regarded, roses even
Afflict the mind with fond unrest;
And to converse direct within Heaven
Is oft a labour in the breast;
Whate’er the up-looking soul admires,
Whate’er the senses’ banquet be,
Fatigues at last with vain desires,
Or sickens by satiety;
But truly my delight was more
In her to whom I’m bound for aye
Yesterday than the day before
And more to-day than yesterday.