Untitled Sonnet

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Dreams soothed my tears with thoughts of you, oh love,

though pride held high my soul for little while.

Yet here lay I in shackles lest I move

to you who left me fretting and beguiled.

 

Ah! A fool is Eros who fools us all,

he blindly leads to death with good intent

and follow we his fleeting silv’ry gall;

but my queries seem never to relent.

 

And I, in jest, begin to test each heart,

to find new joys in smiles of an hour.

How frail and pitiful am I to dart

from hand to hand; love’s milk begins to sour.

 

Fatigued and weak with mem’ries of the past,

I shrivel, slope, subside behind a mask.

 

 

 

 

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