Here, have I come: to know thy voice, to thrill
At every timbre, to rejoice my sin,
The very amber of my choice. For mine
Is all perfection, comfort, and goodwill.
And, have I known: to rest, to sleep. Therein
Shall I in thee my comfort keep. Confine
Should I to me thy tears to weep. Begin,
Do I to quell the fears that each of thine
Own quited years might never hope to kill.
Now, am I come: to decimate thy blind
Illusion. And, have I known: all thy sound
And furied Confusion. Here, do I bind
All hope no faith nor charity hath bound.
Celerity is stopped–and rested. Still…
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: