Sonnet LXIII. After long storms and tempests’ sad assay

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

AFTER long storms and tempests’ sad assay,

Which hardly I endured heretofore,

In dread of death, and dangerous dismay,

With which my silly bark was tossed sore:

I do at length descry the happy shore,

In which I hope ere long for to arrive:

Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught with store

Of all that dear and dainty is alive.

Most happy he! that can at last achieve

The joyous safety of so sweet a rest;

Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive

Remembrance of all pains which him oppressed.

All pains are nothing in respect of this;

All sorrows short that gain eternal bliss.