Thursday, November 8, 2012

Sonnet 27


Would I intend to find you still
If all our truth was told out loud
In perfect tunes, in rhymes that kill
And send our fears to days confined?

Yet how unjust to cling to her!
As pale your moon, as soft your kiss
I part from thee to long prepare
My nights, my days to take her bliss

Mistake me not, I claim no clues
I swear to this and slay your fate
For all I planned and all I grew
You took from me and shut the gate

Yet death, as strange, as merry, as doomed
Shall find the key, shall know 'twas you.


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