Another Sonnet to Black it self
Thou Black, wherein all colours are compos’d,
And unto which they all at last return,
Thou colour of the Sun where it doth burn,
And shadow, where it cools, in thee is clos’d
Whatever nature can, or hath dispos’d
In any other here: from thee do rise
Those tempers and complexions, which disclos’d,
As parts of thee, do work as mysteries,
Of that thy hidden power, when thou dost reign
The characters of fate shine in the Skies,
And tell us what the Heavens do ordain,
But when Earth’s common light shines to our eys,*
Thou so retir’st thy self, that thy disdain
All revelation unto Man denys.
* Eyes
