Madrigal 12. Like to the Mountains, are mine high desires

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

LIKE to the Mountains, are mine high desires;

Level to thy love’s highest point:

Grounded on faith, which thy sweet grace requires.

For Springs, tears rise in endless source.

For Summer’s flowers, Love’s fancies I appoint.

The Trees, with storms tossed out of course,

Figure my thoughts, still blasted with Despair.

Thunder, lightning, and hail

Make his trees mourn: thy frowns make me bewail!

This only difference! Here, fire; there, snows are!