If e’er I err it be in the throes of love.
It was not far from hence that love was blithe
Last long ago, last’d long, ergo I strove
To strive ‘gainst strife, against th’tide of life,
Tide turned ere turn springtide I fly, thus flee,
Let’s bleed, then, you with me as man with wife,
Plead with me lest e’er bleed you with me
And ‘rrive again at that most vicious knife.
Too late; two latent loves love not the sight
Of one another nor two apart nor fickle plight
Of burning love, for e’en I fear the light
That gives the youth their used and stale delight.
For Virtue in solemnity buys not
That truth which tears of stainéd heart doth wot.
Thus we begin again the long travail
Brought fitting fast to sky’s wide, waking brow.
The growth of trees and seeds we wary wail
While watching out of windows, clothèd crows
Cawing death’s dawning day from burning thrones.
Late, late, cometh the lonely star’s bright balm!
Which eases wearied wounds and painèd groans
And soft caresses men t’eternal calm.
From whence fast flies the veiled and mourning moon
Who wreaths the warm, wild world in twilit beams?
Too fast by far our dark days end; too soon
The lines draw dreary tales in skin’s new seams.
And yet our days seem not as short in truth
If fondly, not with fear, we treasure youth.
Of the reckoning of my heart I know
Not where to end my labored musing. Your heart
And mind mind I not—and who, lo! low
Am I that thou art mindful? Lie, love’s art,
Lies not yet well with wearied truth
Of which your personhood beneath I cling.
Beauty—thou pretty painter false I ruth
Do feel, do fear, of thee here now—I sing!
For to forget thy beating spirit love
I well as disavow, and you, sweet friend
Lest lose to looking stubbornly above
Do dream more meager thoughts for our sweet end.
There thee I from me willing Love hence coax
Ere miss amidst Her rushed and blushing strokes.
The stupid sonnet you all want to read
Is unconventional a(line break)]*nd crass.
There is no rhyme or overarching creed
And words like “shit” get thrown in cuz it has
That dgaf feel that casual seems real,
#tooreal, to reel in modern readers ‘nshit.
Back then everyone spoke like Ophel’
So it was cool for Shake to use his wit,
But now our words are wasted, hammered, drunk
And dtf as fuck—dude, who’s that slang
O’er grinding in the corner with some hunk,
Her thong bright red amidst the throng, her thang
On getting? Art, where art thou hiding here?
You rotting ready round these lines I fear.
Author’s note: 2nd line reads: “Is unconventional and line break crass”
When in cruel, ruminating Time’s account
Fore called am I to pay my living debts
The dewy past I trembling shall amount,
The worth of which upon my while bet.
Thereby by brooding Ruth’s chargéd behest
My moments must I moaning mourn before
Recalled amidst death’s heaving ‘pon my breast,
I languished long for longer living more.
Therefore I forcibly fixate on days
Dear flitting by in Time’s own twinkling streams,
For death is but the cost mort mem’ry pays
For dreary dawns and frightened evening’s screams.
I beg my future self me to forgive
For paying such a price to let me live.
When in books brooking history I see
Great men’s dates’ dates, such mention of death grates
Against my solid soul. Fame sold for free
From forward-looking fortune sets all fates
Upon that final will, the bill of sale
Which worried wordy wrought wrings rising worth
Above the graven face of man which wails
Beneath the grout, the rails of life’s last hearth.
I therefore mourn the while which be but fame’s
Mild morning; thus I frame life’s many dates
Which men all live to see but few can tame
With words and deeds alone to satiate
The passed. Yet not to kleos do I cling
Or past days, but of children shall I sing!
For you my darling shadow, love of mind
Have I no words of beauty, rhyme, nor wit
To press my argument of love, no hind
Whoso or summer’s day, nor star eyes lit
Lamented, bright belying inner fire.
No dress ever adorns your flowing figure
Nor bed of posies ‘pon which for your retire
Can I construct, nor in conceive with rigor
Youthful and never-ending. Never ends
Your ending for never bends the wending
Will of death who deft denies and rends
You from his stony roster. Ever pending
Is our embrace and facing, but no more
Than thoughts need I t’eternal you adore.
If never shall I love again then I
Do fear I’m as naïve as those who love
Forever. While at least they she can spy
I too pray just the same to Her above
Who bids us many mortals to be men.
For never is as fair a mistress as
Forever in my eyes, though one to when
Wends not so well, but rather hell he has
Upon his finger never’s ring thus placed.
But never is forever steadfast true
Whereas forever’s never quite so chaste
But hastens to transgress ere autumn’s hue
Descends and leaves looks fallen fast to dirt.
Thus never shall I love, and never hurt.
Whoever has you, dear, has joy la belle
In balls and languid love which more amour
For thee would bring to waste. I vouch this hell:
Thy beauty I have tasted and adore
And now mere drink my bitter tea and think
Thine honey sweet must half a heaven be.
Aloof and brazen must I make my ink
Which wonts to wend away from homey seas
And flow afar for foreign feet and fervor,
Lest lose thy grace and favor for a love
Which wants no more than you for me to savor.
Our friendship is the sentiment which proves
That I unworthy ever am to court
A woman whom my curséd heart could hurt.
I here now am broken and broken thus
Thus never swear upon a such to write
Theme as which that not shall speak even this
Within I. It me not within my plight
Withstanding stand cannot much so as hope
For future are the past which my sight days
To forward beauty looked. I this now cope
Cannón for smoldering a cannot pays
The shattered price of like late ling'ring loud.
When sweet sessions to the silence fought
For telling lost fortelling for false proud
Crowned now am head of I upon who sought
Such thrown while yet from throne. I now alone
Loan beg thee of though e’er back pay postpone.
Author’s SparkNotes: I am broken here now, and broken thus, thus swear to never write upon such a theme within this (sonnet) as that which I shall not even speak. My plight within me not withstanding, it (my plight) cannot stand so much as hope, for past are the days which my sight (when I) looked forward to future beauty. I now cannot cope (with) this, for a loud, smoldering cannon pays the price of a shattered lingering like (love). When (There was a time when) sweet sessions to the silence fought (against) false foretelling: for proud(ly) telling, lost am I who sought of (for) crowned head while yet thrown from upon such throne. I now alone beg thee of loan though e’er pay back postpone.
At the end of all things will I want once last to write?
The high hues of the sky I surely sore shall miss
When fallen to dusky dark left only’s night
The hood of black velvet drawn across all this
That ever I beheld with happy hands
Upon the page. But lines too early break
When written in time’s cold and borrowed sands,
And forgetting her flow do we foolishly try to take
More than our due, but rather like dew upon
The great riveting grass that bolts the ground down fast
Do we sparkle for but our morning, flitting fawn,
Then into the bright light fade, our moment passed?
If lying there I desperately wish to hear
But one comforting verse, I won’t, I fear.
A vague and nameless worth outlives great lives
That like the light from distant stars shines well
Past mundane days and stubbornly survives
The breaks of eras and end of fortune’s bell
Soft tolling. Lofty fame, that noble drape
We kindly wrap around our fallen kind
Does cover much as tell, and can’t escape
The truth of dreary moments lost to wind
And thinning breath, with hearth’s warm fire spent.
The pillow cold upon which last we rest
No comfort yields, no elegant lament
Whose pulsing rhythm beats life back to breaking breast.
Yet all that fame I happily would trade
For humble days that ne’er to dust must fade.
In lamenting death I do forget that Time
Does heal all wounds. Perhaps our timed retire
Is no more than fair Time’s fair time who prior
Did us tenderly love. Or worse the crime
Could oùrs be who waste the hour sublime
Away from loving Time with thoughts placed higher
Towards that harlot Fame whom all desire,
Betraying Time’s plain trust for luscious rhyme.
Her heart thus hurt we her cannot lay blame
Who breaks the beating knot that binds us here
And cuts the bloody tide we hold in vain.
I too await this fate but yet for Fame
I two know well and both do rightly fear,
For both have left the greats to shame and pain.
I know not what to believe but that she be
Beautiful from afar in black and gray
And close in wide, white eyes and else I see
That from fierce sweetness trap me to the fray
And fraying clothes which lay me meek and low
And make me beg within and break without
Her. The fabric of my mind does bid me go
Towàrds her closer till I taste her pout
And hastily lay to her waist which warm
Shall lay me fast to waste. Yet sorrow chaste
Does make a man as me who yearns such form;
The ebb and slope are but what on are based
Them all, them all, them all! The web which hope
Denies does far nor nigh my heart elope.
I feel the breadth of dreams upon my mind
Like soft and heavy whispers of the kind
That tell of trav’ling mountains worn and wide
And ships that span the suckling golden tide.
Of early mornings dreamt and dark, cold nights
The palate stirs and savors, shades and lights
Till last all’s left is kiss upon the cheek
Of thought, thus subtle seen and blushing meek.
I see each peace of slumberous thought the more
For kindred kind and kindled kind of sheen
Which too, plus many thoughts thought at the fore
Do ease past tenses and predict the mean
Of futures perfect waiting for the day.
The truth, though, lies not in but with such say.
Bereft, the fickle tumult rises swift
Above beyond the peaks of flighty mind
And rises to the cloudless candor, gift
To but the falling moment now behind
The straining stance of memory. Dear life
Which has no method more than moments frail
Does bend and fast shall break, yet dear’s the tithe
That nightly comes the soul to trembling hail
From wearied body wild and loath head.
Bright breaking on the eve of dawn or dew
Fixed fast upon the steady straws of bed
Does soft recall the soul from knowledge new.
The feeling of being real I sorely yield
Lest looking lose all that it me has healed.
To Gay and Co.
Let god or glory bid that never am
I post-hence known for nothing more than wit.
For humor bawdy rotten grows and damn
The vulgar vernacular and pennéd puns, hit
Upon the low-set mark of nothing! Time
Does make all reference stale and values low
That high we high compared with past’s cruel crime.
Some politician’s fame we fast do blow
Off as the dripping dust of history,
And peers whom we do love and loving hate
Wrought weigh our own lines down with misted plea,
Obscurity the critic, final fate.
If proof you need that satire has no worth
Look further not than these lines lacking mirth.
John Gay was a poet and dramatist best known for his work, "The Beggar's Opera."
The beginning of the day as well as end
Is wreathed with rest as well as lacking sun.
So too can any living thoughts back bend
To time beyond the lidded shores to none.
Thus looking ‘fraid ahead we oft forget
The curtains black and still about our start,
Which meager stirred delays the dawning debt
Of breaking days and crumbling, trepid heart.
Yet born of moments, pieces I have felt
In forming taste of fearéd twin decay
And dreamless lose my life in moments dealt
Unluckily in cards of fortune’s sway.
I living now though once not so must know
Yet fear as well forget the coming go.
What happens when two men the same woe love?
When beauty stained by time or ‘quaintence stales
And pales in th’ ‘paris’ t’ flutt’ring fem enough
Not for yet i’ th’ fore of pithy Po’m who wails
‘gainst lifeless limits and living limb whose charm
Weak circulates ‘round, ‘compassing breath to body
‘nd back again gauged at th’ expense of harm
To penitent body, flayed frail form for a god he
Little knows nor cares to save but that “no”
Mute murmured ‘pon the tip of pinched, pink lips.
My muse grows tired of our treading slow
And often ‘gether ‘thin the wooded ‘clipse
That dark does call forth shad’wy love and death:
I bid them bond and thus waste no more breath.
What say thee, mired despondency of breast?
You have at last my unjealous attent:
No love nor death nor artifice’s behest
Shall spare me from thy lone and pure lament.
“I miss you!” cries my age back to my youth,
And “ah, cruel love,” my mind thus sighs at form.
My blood does ever run unwilled to soothe
For fear that calmed it cooled should not be warm.
But pay no heed, dear heart, for I am yours,
And deaf to fears and musings of the night.
Therefore what say thee, heart that soul adores,
What sorrows weigh on thee, what heavy blight?
I stopped and listened. Then I knew at last
That my and mortal heart had ‘ready passed.
Dear life, you’re sweet to me. I do not often get the chance
To thank or think about your little, caring gestures or
The gift of days past parted, framed and found at passing glance.
Dear beauty, you’re too good to meander ‘mid my wand’ring lore:
Go, leave me here with art; she’ll keep my company quite warm.
The world is waiting and will kinder craft for you a throne
Than ever artist as I am could dream to without scorn
For self—for none’s the art who worships with his not his own.
Yet even now I selfish cling to both of you, my dears,
And doubt I’ll let you leave as long as I can draw you out,
My greedy pen licking lines of ink upon the page, my tears
Tracing lost love and lonely garland’ nature’s whisp’ring shouts.
I fear, dear life too sweet, dear beauty good to me,
That you yourselves you’ll have to part for sake of thee.