I hear the rain; she calleth as she did
So many years ago. But now I can
Not heed this pain. She claimed me as her man;
No longer is it so. Thus am I hid
From she, whom hath she been, my dearest love.
Thou canst but ask: But why dost thou forsake
This holy path of love which thou bespake
To be the flask who’s nectars rank above
All fruit; wherethrough, all Gods and men, subsist.
But to be true, I sometimes answer her;
Though not so loudly she should know exists
The man she proudly loved, because he were
The shell of what he was, so shan’t she know
The depths, so shut, a failing love may go…
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
I should not read this one so late at night. It makes me cry.
Beautiful, as usual, my love.
I am quite sure you can tell that this is one of my very young attempts. I sometimes blush when reading them for a variety of reasons; still… I feel as though the windows into the thoughts of my former self that such entries provide are priceless.
priceless, indeed! Beautiful and priceless.
Thank you, Sweetheart.
Reblogged this on In a preferred embodiment.
Thank you very much, Rahul!