Sonnet XLVII. Like Memnon’s rock, touched with the rising sun

Giles Fletcher (1586?–1623)

LIKE MEMNON’s rock, touched with the rising sun,

Which yields a sound, and echoes forth a voice:

But when it ’s drowned in western seas is dumb;

And drowsy-like, leaves off to make a noise.

So I, my Love, enlightened with your shine,

A Poet’s skill within my soul I shroud;

Not rude, like that which finer wits decline;

But such as Muses, to the best allowed.

But when your figure and your shape is gone;

I speechless am, like as I was before:

Or if I write, my verse is filled with moan;

And blurred with tears, by falling in such store.

Then muse not, LICIA, if my Muse be slack:

For when I wrote, I did thy beauty lack.