Sonnet I: His Favour

At rest she lieth down within her bed,
Doth close long lidded eyes, though not to sleep
In her repose for soft, round limbs to rest;
And then, in longing yet, her thoughts toward him:

Of words so closely shared, or left unsaid;
Such secrets, told or not, as cause to weep;
With his remembrance tight against her prest,
Though now, so tattered, once yet thought a whim,

Her tears to calm, his favour held instead,
That holdeth now her heart in safety’s keep,
To lull, so sweet her countenance, to rest–
Then close her eyes again, as night grew dim.

And once we wed, doth dream my love now deep,
As blest, our lives entwined, as any hymn.

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

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So it occurs to me that…

…this entry (spaces removed):

as i slept
by a veranda
open to the sea
on a cool night
just right
to let

the wind
and moonlight
and the stars
blow quietly
past me
as i slept

… is rather a sonnet of sorts if two (acutally quite releveant) lines are added to each verse:

as i slept
just inside
by a veranda
open to the sea
on a cool night
just right
to let

the wind
and moonlight
and the stars
blow quietly
past me
caressing
as i slept

Sonnet X: Labyrinth

His shape as pleaseth me, this fiery art
Doth longsome dream to me whilst gripped in sleep.
Shot through with lightning’s fire, doth dream impart
Such thrill: convivial to wake, to weep,

To think it trivial that thence I’ve gone,
That this Oneiran path: forever lost;
Not Morpheus, nor Hypnos’ other Spawn
Reveals’ this darkened place to whence I crost;

For these three Sons shall ‘ever show
A mortal man each labyrinth but once.
So at my waking hour, must I go
Away within imaginings, unless some bunce

Befall me; kindly providence might choose
To call me with such luck as I may use.

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

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Sonnet: Lost

Here! the poet’s immortal spirit take.
Though long I have betrayed its inner voice,
And wrote, instead, of love, indeed of choice.
I preached the lie of joy. And though I wake

At night to dreams so horrible they make
Me scream for mercy to a God whose Joys
I shall not ever know; could I rejoice
In some God’s misery for His own sake?

I criticized that fool; yet I am he.
The very fool who lives with naught but grief.
My shallow, poet’s soul shall always be
A measure of society’s belief.
I’ve fought this ugly truth to my last breath;
With nothing to look forward to, save death.