Sonnet VIII. More than most fair, full of the living fire

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

MORE than most fair, full of the living fire,

Kindled above unto the Maker near;

No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire,

That to the world naught else be counted dear;

Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest

Shoot out his darts to base affections wound;

But Angels come to lead frail minds to rest

In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound.

You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within;

You stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak;

You calm the storm that passion did begin,

Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak.

Dark is the world, where your light shined never;

Well is he born, that may behold you ever.