Sonnet 46

Yes, seasons change but not your constant heart.
Now in my autumn years I see this so.
Relentless change is sure the worlds’ chart
And time may come, but time must surely go.
But no, not you, steadfast and yet unshaken!
Against the vagaries of time you stand,
And though, in words, your measure can’t be taken,
I proudly count you lover and a friend.
For in glad life, no greater gift is this
Than loves’ sweet pledge to weather savage time.
No memory is as strong as beauty’s kiss-
Your deeds, your love, your truth live in this rhyme.
Though changing seasons may yet squander life-
Could words attest, you’ll ever be my wife.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 45

Midst blackest hours of a hideous night
I here do sit and contemplate my fate.
For in such state there is no greater plight-
When gods and demons do collaborate.
But yet what mortal soul should beg such wrath
Or yet such fearsome council here convene?
What mighty sin yet calls me here to task?
What maxim could a humble life demean?
Perhaps I’m but a pawn in some great game
Of chance; the rules of which remain unknown?
And winning such, what could contenders gain
Were legions great the paltry to o’erthrow?
Yet what to ask when gods or worlds collide
Save for swift death; then bravely step aside.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 44

Black lines! Trite stirrings of a hapless muse
Do yet attempt to call in abject rhyme
A fitting tribute, as if Orpheus
Himself had writ them in some ancient time;
But no, mean verse moves not the savage heart
Nor sways the will of dread Persephone;
Yet as a lover I must play my part
And plead my case ‘gainst cosmic enmity.
These words by mortal hand were sadly writ
And clearly thus no godly graces claim-
Yet Gods and Graces may themselves commit
To verse and rhyme that sing sweet loves’ refrain;
But if these words can you, my love, entrance-
What care I then if rocks and trees can dance?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 43

If I have praised enough, why praise you more
That men should know how rare a flow’r you be;
That doing so might thus increase your store
When those with eyes alone can clearly see?
Is such proud praise for me or yet for you-
That in sweet words I do possess and show
My pow’r to captivate and there accrue
My own sweet praise whereon my own plot grows?
Be sure, my love, these words stand as a truth
Whose calculations are for you alone;
And though such vanities may mar loves’ worth,
A love unlauded, seems a love unknown.
Still, radiant blossom worn on stiff lapel
Doth grace the wearer more than words can tell.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.