Sonnet VII: Helpless

So dark within this place, what is this grey
Like velvet fire that would my hand subdue?
Can this–such sweetest pliancy as may
Command my strength to helplessness–be true?

What should I from this helplessness construe
That further took my senses night from day?
Though ne’er would I this mastery through
Any means demand, excepting I obey.

I take what is demanded and delay,
As valiantly I must, what is my due;
And all this tempest, bid me on its way,
Is great in all it promiseth anew.

Much more thou knew’st than wouldst thou ever say;
Thy sweetness grew that burned my will away.

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

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Sonnet XVIII: A Winter’s Day

I shan’t thee to a summer’s day compare;
Thou lov’st not temp’rate climes I yet disdain.
Cold shake thy searing winds I find as fair:
For, over most creation, cold doth reign.

Yet burn thou bright and hot as Heaven’s eye;
And cold and dark, as dark is Neptune’s Lair;
And nary cold may pale nor fade to die
Thy nature’s spark so hidden unaware.

So is this edge infinity for me:
And shalt thou–changeless ’til the edge of time,
Whilst draw my breath, and know mine eyes foresee–
Remain, ’til death shall take me, in thy prime.

Then fades’ thy mem’ry’s pain; for few men see
Such life these lines contain, these give to thee.

David Emeron

This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:

Sonnet IX: My Sweet Savant

But rest thy racing mind, my sweet savant,
And know thine intellect may bring thee through
Thy fear and doubt, as any other want.
I would thou should but give this truth its due

Though oft wouldst thou believe this help untrue,
My dearest, my most charming, doubtful boy;
So long the list of thy solutions, drew
My mind, as easy thou wouldst reach for joy

And find it waits for thee. No other ploy
Couldst thou detect in me; for, as I were
Thy future, thou wouldst not my past destroy.
Take this I would thee know, and let it stir
Thy mind until occureth free of daunt;
And, if thou wouldst prefer: thy quickness flaunt!

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

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Sonnet VII: Reflected

When I, within the mirror, thee regard;
But not of thine, which shone in silvered glass;
Nay, this, that all the many years discard;
As though no year might ever for thee pass.

So fair, thy sherry coloured hair and eyes;
Thy perfect form I see, as straight and hard;
Thy smile, seeming beautiful and wise;
And strong thy limbs, by time are nary scared.

If thou couldst know what wonders thee await;
More wondrous than most any thou surmise;
If thou couldst only see thy pain abate;
And know how much of life this pain denies.

How few thy years; alas, how little wait;
My life surpast, when thou such things instate.

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Sonnet VI: If Only Knewest Thou

If thou aboundest not with glory, seek
Thou ever this; for if thy world is rife
With glory’s joy, shalt thou abound to speak;
And shalt abound with glory in thy life.

So joyous wouldst thou ever, if thy place
Should, once, thy glory sing; although oblique,
And ne’er regard thy lack of fame, disgrace,
As such; though  fame and glory are unique.

Devoid of one another, both exist.
Though righteous one, the former may debase,
Impossible, unbidden, to resist.
So seek must thou this blessing, to embrace

That strife will fail to find thee in its midst–
The knife that in thy glory, yearns to twist.

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

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