Why speak to you, sweet heart, of my sorrow?
You know my grief, you know my temperament,
What else to whisper to you tomorrow
Besides that which I must most repent?
The clouded heavens reply in silence
While Winter’s weariness echoes my mourning;
Slowly I feel the lights dimming and hence
I find it apt to heed their gloomed warning.
And so I think of meeting you, my heart,
When I am ready to remove this veil,
And show you how sorrow weaves its art
Within a broken spirit that thus entails:
Blind love is damned and most damned be
The fool who beyond friendship seeks beauty.

December 7, 2004

This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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