I lid mine eyes, yet not in sleep, but wake;
Not hid to prize the darkness, nor to see;
Nor magnify some other sense; nor be
Bereft of beauty; nor once more forsake
The heft of duty, as a way to break
The thrall of such cacophonous debris.
Nor shall so thin a veil set me free
From youthful ties, nor hail its mistake,
Nor truth, nor lies, but merely grant repose;
Which waking purpose, clearly, I’m inclined
To take, whenever I may know such throws
Of agony or bliss. And when I find
Such irony as this, I then expose
Myself, to all the wealth, in all my mind.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: