Sonnets
SONNET VI
Thou fill’st my mind with grief so populous
That my soul irks him to be on the road.
Mine eyes cry out, “We cannot bear the load
Of sighs the grievous heart sends upon us.”
Love, sensitive to thy nobility,
Saith, “Sorrow is mine that thou must take thy death
From this fair lady who will hear no breath
In argument for aught save pitying thee.”
And I, as one beyond life’s compass thrown,
Seem but a thing that’s fashioned to design,
Melted of bronze or carven in tree or stone.
A wound I bear within this heart of mine
Which by its mastering quality is grown
To be of that heart’s death an open sign.
27
