Little Sonnet to Little Friends
LET not the proud of heart condemnMe that I mould my ways to hers,Groping for healing in a hemNo wind of passion ever stirs;Nor let them sweetly pity meWhen I am out of sound and sight;They waste their time and energy;No mares encumber me at night.
Always a trifle fond and strange,And some have said a bit bizarre,Say, "Here's the sun," I would not changeIt for my dead and burnt-out star.Shine as it will, I have no doubtSome day the sun, too, may go out.
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