Sonnet 30

A gentle warning for this trust that binds
Is not sufficient for a love that’s true.
Yet do not find stern statement such unkind
Or yet my deepest message misconstrue.
You are my fondest dream, as ever, more;
And all past passions pale by compare.
You are the sun, the moon, all beauty’s store
Reflects itself in that sweet visage fair.
Yet slight untruths do tarnish with a stain
The dearest hopes that love has ever sown;
And action such does truest love profane
And trade its’ sunshine smiles for sad moan.
My heart is yours, you hold it in your hand,
To keep in truth, or crush with false command.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 31

That dearest memories hold our hearts on strings
Is but reflected in these tears that flow,
And silent heartache that sad thought may bring
Betrays itself in silver droplets so.
Thus do I now unleash in silent grief
The memoir of love’s long forgotten years,
And time for once would be a welcomed thief,
Could memory such now be his booty here.
Thus now I mourn remembrance of things past,
Of distant tender years now mocked by time;
And though love’s joys and sorrows seldom last,
Their echos linger ever on my mind.
These echos are but sad and lonely strains
Of strings upon my heart that now are chains.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 32

Could poets’ breath breathe life to barren lines
And capture beautys’ soft and gentle hue;
Could silent words touch chords of loves’ sweet rhyme
And recreate the roses fragrance too;
Then in these lines I would fair Sylvia paint
And beckon forth that subtle melody,
No sweeter sights or scents could intimate
A prouder tribute to her memory.
In pen and ink her virtues thus expressed
Shall praise her worth despite times endless siege
Nor should a beauty ever age unblessed,
For worth unknown, to time does then concede.
Thus in proud verse I praise her with my pen;
This praise to stand ’til time itself shall end.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 33

These yet so sad and dieing days of yore;
Fair sunshine morns all burnished gold and green,
The tender breasts from which our passions tore
Sweet sighs of love that sang our hearts’ refrain;
And sweeter still, fond memories of you
In frill and frock, a wondrous fairy child,
An angel sure, and yet a woman too
Whose silent charms a thousand hearts beguiled.
This was our time, when youth and dreams were one
And hands of hope fair cradled every star.
Each triumph was but scarce a song unsung,
Each day so bright no dark dismay could mar.
Though memories be but rifts in sands of time,
Midst fondest thoughts, your memory reigns sublime.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 34

When I remember all the fruits of youth
That reckless time has scattered in his wake,
A child uplifted in a quest for truth,
Misled by passion, tutored by mistake;
Led by fond dreams of glad prosperity,
Cradled by hope, in hope fair dreams expressed;
Then to embrace a bleak reality,
By time and chance, of fondest dreams bereft;
From brightest morn unto the twilight hour;
From youthful glory to a humbler state.
From gold and green that mark that earthly power
Unto the Stygian black of forgone fate.
Oh cruel time that tempts us with such lust,
Fair gift today, tomorrow is but dust.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 35

And shall you mourn for me when I am gone,
Gone like embittered winds or winter snows,
Gone like a vagrant wanderer ever on
With not a shadowed thought whereof he goes?
Will you think of me then; think then of me,
Of hopes and dreams that love could not express,
Of love whose gentle stirrings could not see
The fruits of life that passed it as it slept?
Yet hope should call that you remember this;
Once there was a man of caring, kind and true,
Whose wandering spirit led his heart amiss
And did his fondest longings misconstrue.
Yet when I’ve gone, say nothing for me then,
Save, he was a man who lived and loved and learned.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 36

I did not know her, though I knew her well.
I knew her features, touch and sable hair.
I knew her silken voice which oft would tell
Of glad tomorrow and its’ grander share.
I knew her hopes and dreams and silent fears,
I held her in the quiet still of night,
And on occasion wiped off silver tears
That stained a rosy cheek with salty blight.
Yet though I knew her thus, I knew her not;
I could not see kind heart both false and true,
I could not see sweet Venus wearing black,
Or hidden insect soiling bud and bloom.
In blissful ignorance I played my part,
For fools in love see only with the heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 37

You left me there no word that you had gone
And I returned to find the hearth gone cold,
With not but silent thoughts to ponder on
And worried fears the heart prefers untold.
With fettered haste I searched each shadowed room
‘Til sweetest hope was drowned in sad despair;
‘Til muted echoes of a grieving moon
Coursed through my veins and wore my spirit bare;
And loneliness as ever lonely was
Enshrouded heart and soul in darkest night,
Enveloped memory in bleak repose
And blurred its color with a stinging sight.
Oh tortured passion that may fools enchain;
To bind in hope, then leave in lasting pain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 38

When I downcast in deep and dark despair
Pay homage to lost hope and bitter days.
When sorrows’ shadow lengthens on the stair
And gentle kindness lies bereft of praise.
When human breast does quake in silent grief
And briny tear betrays a sullen eye,
And aching heart lies in sad state replete
With darkest murk of waxing misery.
‘Tis then my thoughts unto Selena turn;
The soft sweet voice and touch of gentle hand
Reach forth and with their tempered stirrings serve
To uplift hope in iridescent span.
For when she smiles all sorrow then takes flight,
The world sings, and all that’s dark is bright!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 39

My silent pen now mocks me, this I fear,
For months have passed since passion called to write;
Yet less for lack of passion, this I swear
Then for remiss of love which is loves’ blight.
Love is a fragile flower, this is true,
That if neglected withers on the vine;
Yet if fair nurtured still may rise anew
Repaying kindly each, and each in kind.
So I, to you, with this sweet silent pen
Pay homage to love’s wondrous splendent state
And beg forgiveness; nurturing again
That steadfast pow’r that virtue contemplates.
For if mean verse can ever nurture love,
These gentle lines your stolid heart may move.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.