Starlight–pretending grace;
Moonlight–intruding cool:
Configuration’s subtle face
Reflecting in a quiet pool.
Lamplight–embracing calm;
Firelight–surrounding warm:
Romanticism’s gentle hand
Protecting us from harm.
Tag Archives: Rain
Sonnet I: Grades of Paper
Upon a time, my love, a diary
Of paper, stained with words set down in ink;
Revealing all a boy might feel, and think,
And strive, and pray, and wonder what might be;
That, would he, worthy of thy love, decree?
On paper, yes; but also on the brink–
Withholding nothing more–profess; and think,
If then not worthy, tears he shed for thee
Would blur his ink; such tears as fell like rain
To paper; ran his words, as ran his heart,
Cascading down, as rivers, all his pain;
So mixt with joy, and hope we would not part.
Yet now, his tears, upon a keyboard, fall,
Not mixt with joy, nor pain, nor seen at all.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 1: Time Over Time
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:
Sonnet II: That which Dreams
How a gentle rain, a soft rain shall drift
Upon my lonely night, and bring me rest
Like story-book music, beauty at its best,
It singeth songs so lovely and it lifts
My heart as I rejoice its subtle gifts.
Such wistful dreams of peace made manifest,
I lay my grateful head upon thy breast;
And sleep, at last, while on thy love, I drift.
I love thee as I love the touching rain
Which maketh us this soft, prismatic night;
I love thine happiness, I love thy pain
That I may ease with rain—and quiet light;
I love thee dearly as I would restrain
My tears which fall like gentle rain tonight.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 2: My Ink
It never faileth:
The love and loss and rain I
Write so easily.
Sonnet I: That which Sings
I sing to thee of winter’s rain, my sweet;
I sing of hours spent and hours kept;
Of all the dreams beneath this rain, we’ve slept;
For all the time I’ve held thy head, thy feet,
I sing to thee, although my heart is fleet.
If not for me then thou wouldst not have wept;
Thy tears doth fill my pen which make adept,
And make me to produce such indiscreet
Reflection. When I think of all those hours,
Innumerable, they, within our frame;
As sore beset with devils, as with flowers;
Of all the seemingly unending pain;
Those times that seemed controlled by other powers;
I remember, then, how soothing is the rain.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 1: A Letter to My Beloved
I wish this gentle rain
Would wash away all memory of travail;
Nary sadness would then remain.
David Emeron: Sonnets 