Starvation, like a fire, rushes the rat out of his hole

In search of food far and wide to bring home again,

And when his and he be satisfied, may he rest his brain;

Take liberty then, sweet lady, to liken me to the vole:

By the river, like this vole, take I up my little shack,

And mingle the pleasures of the fresh wind with thoughts of you;

Yet when begins fade your frame in my head, rush I out to glimpse you new –

Tired with old thinking, and come with thinking refreshed back.

Then on these new-furnished thoughts am I new-restored,

And feed ever rich for another season,

Mellower than old wine in boorish living;

And richer than princes by that which I have had stored.

But when these thoughts again expend, and I no fresh view find of you,

With thoughts I replace them to jump in the river, and with that melt too!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 14, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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