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Tag Archives: Religion and Spirituality
Sonnet: No Faith
Can now, I truly see the Holy Ghost?
Believing yet in nothing, not the Son,
And not the Father, nor the fallen one;
With only a desire to play as host
To a belief which, at its very most,
Do I admire to adopt–and shun
All else; for now, I see the truth, and run
To-ward a stark, inevitable, coast;
A coast whose beaches speak a Holy Truth;
Though that alone is not why I so care.
It is a great utility of youth;
Yet pains me that it cannot be a tool
Whose faith will serve me, if indeed ’tis there,
Unless a man accept it, as a rule.
Sonnet: Hidden Virtue
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.
Sonnet VI: Ten Thousand Treasures
Ere winter’s sweetest place distils to night,
Posterity could speak ten thousand times,
Make not forbidden, those that willing fight;
Deface thy ragged killer for its crimes!
Should one refigure life, if not some loan,
Too much the sum in use: art thou contrite?
Depart with usury and pay to own,
And let thy summer’s beauty be thy right.
Another treasure then if make thine heir,
Not e’er time’s hand made e’er thy leaving known;
And treasure done thyself, or bred, were fair,
All happier of thee than thee outshone.
What vial of Death bewitching dreams prepare?
Self-conquest warms thee, vile Death to dare!
- David Emeron
To: myself
This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet VI: (William Shakespeare)
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.
Sonnet V: (William Shakespeare)
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill’d though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Sonnet IV:
Wilt spend thou Nature’s battle unaware
And lend thy loveliness when thou agree
To legacy–or Heaven as thou dare?
This battle, free to lose; for the degree
That this abuse could bounteous appear;
To use this matchless contest; wouldst thou care
To give thy future someone to revere?
To live, what legacy wouldst thou prepare?
Thyself, as though alone reflected are;
No epigone–when fall thyself so near–
To traffic nature’s call? Deceive and scar
This battlement to leave to thy frontier!
In this way, bring thee over from afar,
And what might be thine image, to a star.
- David Emeron
To: myself
This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 