Bowl of O


sketch notes..._24.01.17
sketch notes…_24.01.17

My Love is of a birth as rare _ As t’is for object strange and high: _ It was begotten by despair _ Upon Impossibility.







sketch notes_25.01.17
sketch notes_25.01.17

Magnanimous Despair alone _ Could show me so divine a thing, _ Where feeble Hope could ne’r have flown _ But vainly flapt its Tinsel Wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive _ Where my extended Soul is fixt, _ But Fate does Iron wedges drive, _ And alwaies crouds it self betwixt.


For Fate with jealous Eye does see _ Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close: _ Their union would her ruine be,_ And her Tyrannick pow’r depose.

And therefore her Decrees of Steel _ Us at the distant Poles have plac’d, _ (Though Loves whole World on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embrac’d.

Unless the giddy Heaven fall,_ And Earth some new Convulsion tear; _ And, us to joyn, the World should all _ Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.

sketch_26.01.17_(13.5x10cm) Bowl of O Monochrome
sketch_26.01.17_(13.5x10cm) Bowl of O Monochrome

As Lines so Loves oblique may well _ Themselves in every Angle greet: _But ours so truly Paralel, _ Though infinite can never meet.

Therefore the Love which us doth bind, _ But Fate so enviously debarrs, _ Is the conjunction of the Mind, _ And Opposition of the Stars.