The second time she
asked me to write a sonnet,
this is what I wrote.
Everything I write
is for my wife. Has always
been. Shall ever be.
Everything I do,
my very life. As much hers
As it is for me.
Hers is every word
as I write, or as I read–
graphite, ink, or throat.
I think I may have gotten carried away there. So I might as well present in proper format all of the above.
Written in July of 2012. Does it count, or not?
In peace, my love, forever do I goe,
That blessed nectar I adored to seek,
That gave thee rest and ease in its mystique
That long ago hath poured and I bestow.
Take thou, my love, these tears that overflow
To quench thy soul; restored, do they forespeak
To thee; I shed them gladly, take my cheek
To drink–so blush, as though with wine aglow.
But soft, my sweet, and drink thou ever deep;
Breathe now the vapours of my soul–and heart:
Read thou its sonnets, and thou wilt mee know.
But peaceful, shall I lay thee down to sleep,
Bequeathing thee, when we awake, such art
And dance that from thy hearth shall never goe.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
In peace, I do go
That blessed nectar to seek
May it give you ease
My love, take these tears
To quench the thirst of your soul
I shed them in joy
But soft, and drink now
Breathe the vapours and know me
Read my heart’s message
In peace I sleep now
With joy I will awaken
I dance now at home
Surrounding all the visible of life
Are reds and violets of all creation.
Hidden there beyond all earthly sight,
These outer hues defy our expectation.
Wish I, friend, to show how this empowers;
And to give you all that can be seen.
But still I know, for you, there are those flowers
You would fear to touch and may demean.
I’d wish for you to see the beauty there
As well as all the beauty that you know
And know I do your love is true, your care
Is real although the places you will go
Are only fully present in the known
N’er knowing all the hues to which I’ve grown.
To a friend long passed:
We were not so different;
I wish you had known.
When life has given all Her many gifts;
Whenever can the measure of these things;
Those gifts alike to paupers and to kings;
The very blessings, all, that spirit lifts;
Be counted up among the many rifts
And twists, and turns; and bold accounting springs
Forth only optimistic numbers? Brings
The news in harmonies and umbers. Shifts
The essence of attention to the day
For which this great accounting brings its news;
And which a man, forgetting not to pray,
Will promise Her he never shall abuse,
In truth unquantifiable, the way
He finds himself inspired by Her muse.
I’ll never forget,
Because I live and breathe that
From whence these gifts come.
David Emeron: Sonnets 