Sonnet 87

I came to you not much a beggar born,
And there I pledged my troth, your heart to win;
My only gift, a lowly life there sworn
And all the love one humble man could give.
I clutched your hand, head bowed, on bended knee;
Scorn and repudiation set to hear;
Girding my soul, my sentence yet to grieve;
Sweet love to die upon the altar there.
Your words came as an arrow to my heart,
But not the bolt whereof sweet love lies slain;
Nay, with the best dear Eros could impart,
If love did ever trust upon his aim;
Thus for your love when asked what ploy I plied;
I fair reply; the gods were on my side.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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