<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419680" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy X: The Dream</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Image of her whom I love, more than she,<br>Whose fair impression in my faithful heart<br>Makes me her medal, and makes her love me,<br>As Kings do coins, to which their stamps impart<br>The value: go, and take my heart from hence,<br>Which now is grown too great and good for me:<br>Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense<br>Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you are gone, and Reason gone with you,<br>Then Fantasy is queen and soul, and all;<br>She can present joys meaner than you do;<br>Convenient, and more proportional.<br>So, if I dream I have you, I have you,<br>For, all our joys are but fantastical.<br>And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;<br>And sleep which locks up sense, doth lock out all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">After a such fruition I shall wake,<br>And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;<br>And shall to love more thankful sonnets make<br>Than if more honour, tears, and pains were spent.<br>But dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;<br>Alas, true joys at best are dream enough;<br>Though you stay here you pass too fast away:<br>For even at first life's taper is a snuff.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Filied with her love, may I be rather grown<br>Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419680" data-title="Elegy X: The Dream de John Donne" data-description="Image of her whom I love, more than she, Whose fair impression in my faithful heart Makes me her medal, and makes her love me, As Kings do coins, to which their stamps impart The value: go, and take my heart from hence, Which now is grown too grea..."></div> </div> </div>

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