Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d,
To-morrow sharpened in his former might:
So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Or call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.
In plain English
The speaker is exhausted by separation from the young man and pleads with love itself to stay sharp and alive. He's worried that closeness has dulled what should be urgent and keen — unlike hunger, which sharpens again tomorrow after today's meal. Love needs to work the same way: even after today's satisfaction, it shouldn't go numb and flat.
He compares the painful gap between meetings to an ocean that keeps two newly betrothed lovers apart. They visit the shore daily, and when they finally reunite, the joy is overwhelming — precisely *because* of the time lost. Or think of winter: its hardship makes summer feel three times more precious and longed for.
The speaker isn't asking for love to fade — he's asking it to stay vital by respecting absence. Without the wound of separation, reunion has no power. Dulled love is worse than no love at all.
