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:

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