Poems, Chiefly Lyrical/Sonnet (4)
SONNET.
The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain,Down an ideal stream they ever float,And sailing on Pactolus in a boat,Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe The understream. The wise, could he beholdCathedralled caverns of thickribbéd goldAnd branching silvers of the central globe,Would marvel from so beautiful a sightHow scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent lightShot into gold, a snake her forehead clips,And skins the colour from her trembling lips.