Wrote, of that I wrote
Within a thought once within,
Without is without.
Always it began,
As reliable as though
It ran like clockwork,
My love, did I sit,
Outside, under an awning,
Watched and listened as it rained.
And sometimes, I cried;
All my tears, all my ink, mixed;
And wrote I such things:
I thought, one day, I wrote a thing of beauty.
Later on, when taking it in hand,
And sharing it with those, as was my duty;
Neither they, nor I, could understand.
The virtue of a verse is that its meaning,
Often may completely hidden be.
And God, it seems, prefers a lack of gleaning;
With His truth revealed more cryptically.
I thought I could, from Heaven, feel Him looking;
Sung my hymn about it, none could hear;
Though none would deign to join me in my brooking;
Never did a votary appear.
I read, again, my words much later; and
I finally began to understand.
How will evil fall?
Shall it be ground underneath
Purely distilled truth?
Truth and good and right
And beauty cannot be stopped.
Many will have died–
For this, gladly die.
For truth is all that we have.
Truth, and nothing else.
All beauty and right
All goodness and all kindness
Come from perfect truth.
Distilled by reason
Distilled by our harmony
With the truth itself.
inclusion anywhere
would
prejudice its meaning
So a dear someone
Made me realise this truth,
So gave me comfort.
Above all, tend thy body, treat not cavalier
The vessel of thy mind and soul; for where
Thy foolishness, ephemera revere,
So ever, doth for each, the other care.
What providence might I impart of this!?
What bounty bring, avoiding such despair.
If not such caution, would I be remiss?
This wisdom, give I thee, beyond compare.
I yearn to tell the ease thou shouldst have won;
Or how simplicity wouldst bring thee bliss;
And wish thy time for these could be outdone–
Not lateness now these choosings reminisce.
Though ne’er may be these hands of time outrun;
So could thine ease much sooner have begun.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
So simple are such
As would, effortless, give us
All our years; and more.
David Emeron: Sonnets 