English poetry

Poems in English

Sonnet LXVII

Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escapt away:
Sits downe to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their pray.
So after long pursuit and vaine assay,
When I all weary had the chace forsooke,
The gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.
There she beholding me with mylder looke,
Sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide:
Till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,
And with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde.
Strange thing me seemed to see a beast so wyld,
So goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.

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Poem Sonnet LXVII - Edmund Spenser