And in the midst of June I feel December.
O how this earthly temper doth debase
The noble Soul in this her humble place.
Whose wingy nature ever doth aspire
To reach that place whence first it took its fire.
These flames I feel, which in my heart do dwell,
Are not thy beams, but take their fire from Hell.
O quench them all, and let thy light divine
Be as the Sun to this poor Orb of mine;
And to thy sacred Spirit convert those fires,