Remember thou, my sweetest love, that grape
Made manifest alloweth many forms:
A quick but fleeting ichorous escape;
A spirit with incalescence that warms.
The grape may yield up poison that would kill,
A draught that might embolden ones appeal,
A sedative to blight one of his skill,
Or potion, pray, infirmity, may heal.
Remember thou how fickle is the grape
So oft’ endowed, its yield, so commonplace;
But rarely, fine enough a thing to shape
Ones soul, aligned, unto a state of grace.
So may this sweet elixir slake thy soul;
And pray, my sweetest love, it make thee whole.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
After the passing of all this time I will finally ask, my dearest, why does this piece have no comments? I find it a puzzle.