Sonnet III: That which Falls

Such tears as I do weep are tears of joy;
But sadness is with joy forever twined.
Such tears as purest crystal so enshrined
Should be–such wonders of extreme employ!

Miraculous; for what would once destroy,
And in the very wonder, this would bind
Us to our fate, our destiny of mind
And body, soul and sinew, girl and boy:

In youth did we enjoin the gentle touch,
The halting kiss; and these were each the more
Exciting for the newness of the act;

And through the years, each sweet caress was much
More fine than was the last; and did restore
My faith in Paradise with thought and fact.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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4 responses to “Sonnet III: That which Falls

    • I marvel some times, at this besotted young man’s command of the form. When I read these over I thought to be more embarrassed then, in fact I was. I do not remember well enough from whence came my vocabulary.

      I recall quite well though penning these in a diner I would frequent in those days. I do miss the days when one could enjoy a pipe after dinner in such a place–“free country, my great aunt Alice!! … um… where was I??–and wile away the hours writing verses. I had a pocket Webster’s rhyming dictionary, and no other reference material save what I had stuffed into my head of Browning (either one) or Coleridge, or whomever else I had read recently. I might have a volume in my briefcase. But I would just quietly read it for a while. I never truly used them as reference material. Though…. I’m not sure why. Doing so might have helped me past some difficult passages.

      I recall, also, I had this wonderful old brown leather briefcase…. Which… I so loved because the latches made such an ominous sound when it was opened. Newer briefcases never made that sound, alas. They do not spring and bounce 5 to 10 times, the just make a muffled “thunk” sound. One day I shall find another like it in a thrift store or cannibalise the old latches on one.

      It is almost, or sometimes even completely like reading the works of someone else. Quite often I have no recollection whatsoever of a particular old sonnet of mine. Particularly if it is not among my “collection,” and is found by either of us among some random loose papers.

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