Twicknam Garden - John Donne

Ostensibly about natural beauty as organized by man, this poem contains a rather odd conglomeration of religious imagery, unrequited love angst, and the bitter railing against female inconstancy common in Donne's early work.  Not to mention, of course, a couple of bizarre metaphors (would it be Donne without them?).  But though I find it hard to classify, I still find it fun to read!

Twicknam Garden

Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears,
   Hither I come to seek the spring,
   And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,
Receive such balms as else cure everything;
   But oh, self-traitor, I do bring
The spider love, which transubstantiates all,
   And can convert manna to gall,
And that this place may thoroughly be thought
   True Paradise I have the serpent brought.

'Twere wholesomer for me, that winter did
   Benight the glory of this place,
   And that a grave frost did forbid
These trees to laugh, and mock me to my face;
   But that I may not this disgrace
Endure, nor yet leave loving, Love let me
   Some senseless piece of this place be;
Make me a mandrake, so I may groan here,
   Or a stone fountain weeping out my year.

Hither with crystal vials, lovers come,
   And take my tears, which are love's wine,
   And try your mistress' tears at home,
For all are false, that taste not just like mine;
   Alas, hearts do not in eyes shine,
Nor can you more judge woman's thoughts by tears,
   Than by her shadow, what she wears.
O perverse sex, where none is true but she,
   Who's therefore true, because her truth kills me.