The Rising Sun

Busy historic fool, unruly sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and via curtains name on us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

Late faculty boys and bitter prentices,

Go inform court docket huntsmen that the king will ride,

Call united states of america ants to harvest offices,

Love, all alike, no season is aware of nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong

Why shouldst thou think?

I may want to eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would now not lose her sight so long;

If her eyes have now not blinded thine,

Look, and the next day late, inform me,

Whether each th' Indias of spice and mine

Be the place thou leftst them, or lie here with me.

Ask for these kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, All right here in one mattress lay.

She's all states, and all princes, I,

Nothing else is.

Princes do however play us; in contrast to this,

All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

Thou, sun, artwork 1/2 as joyful as we,

In that the world's reduced in size thus.

Thine age asks ease, and for the reason that thy responsibilities be

To heat the world, it truly is completed in warming us.

Shine right here to us, and thou artwork everywhere;

This mattress thy core is, these walls, thy sphere.

The Rising Sun l Abraham Adesanya