Sonnet 103

Should some sagacious creature read these words
In future eons, granting earth still turns;
Perhaps he finds my writings quite absurd
And on a heap of ash my thoughts shall burn;
But yet perhaps he finds them quaint and true
And thinks perchance some dull intelligence
Reached forth from time, his conscience to imbue
With measured thoughts of when and why, and whence.
Thus in the future, if true love shall last,
And if two sexes still embrace in dance,
Through thoughts on you he’ll glimpse idyllic past
And marvel at the bliss of true romance.
Like Paris and Helen, we shall vanquish time;
Ensconced in verse; immutable in rhyme.

 

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 102

For what is yet more powerful than death
Which steals the life from every living soul?
All creatures born of dust must feel his breath
As sure as spring’s lush blooms meet winter’s snow.
What god of love concedes to this dark reign
That every living thing be born to die;
That all the precious brood the earth shall bring
Traverse its’ vale of tears with death but nigh?
What hope forged cross of promise must life bear,
Not knowing heav’n or hell be destiny;
And which corporeal joys must we forbear,
To flout foul death and live eternally?
What mighty theorems thrive on proofs so thin
That men brave death to know what heav’n they’re in?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 101

Deceit in love is yet more foul than pain,
It is an evil that devours the soul;
Dark Morpheus can make base suffering wane;
No potion yet can anguished hearts console.
No tears more bitter than of broken hearts;
No salve to soothe their aching misery;
No words of solace can sweet hope impart,
Save somber prayers to gods of sympathy.
When potions fail and callous gods decline,
Beseeching prayers lay slain at heaven’s gate,
Malevolence all precious joys entwine,
And life assumes the blackest pall of fate.
True love, despite of wounds, lives ever on,
But love not true, so smit, is ever gone.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 100

Did you dream me, or do I true exist,
For my thoughts dwell on nothing but your grace;
All else seems nought but early morning mist
Through which I see the shining of your face;
For what etheral vapors hold me here
And blind me to the sight of all but you?
Or what nepenthe formed of heaven’s tears
Did I imbibe, all longings to subdue?
For if I am a figment of your mind,
A whimsy of capricious consciousness,
I pray we never waken here to find
My dream within your dream no longer is;
But if I am a child of your brain,
I’ll wait in earnest ’til you sleep again.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 99

Sweet Sylvia, where does your heart now roam?
What pleasured lands do you now grace with glee?
Can your bright smile still blind the golden sun,
And warm the souls of those so blessed to see?
Does your soft voice still echo distant songs,
Half remembered, yet half forgotten too;
Soft fading strains when rousing strains have gone,
That sooth and linger in the drawing room;
And does the moon still gild your raven hair;
And do the stars still dance with crazed delight
When you, sweet summer sylph do take the air,
And float through silvered gardens in the night?
I know that ever where on earth you stand,
All eyes are one, your spectacle so grand.

 

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 98

When time has weighed its’ measure on your eyes,
Pronouncing judgement on your passing years;
When paints and potions cannot here disguise,
The time torn furrows of your bitter tears.
What truthful glass would yet defend you now?
Commute the sentence that just time proclaims?
For if that glass your truth of heart would show,
No clemency would his shrewd writ contain.
The winds of lust and leisure bore you on;
Veneers of lacquered lies did you surround;
From truth and love and prayers you did abscond,
Vile credo thus has brought you to this end.
Despite false pigments, time has not been kind,
For life so lived leaves more than truth behind.

 

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.