Sonnet 339

What is the worst of this vile vexing plague
That I fair choked with spittle cease to be?
Far worse that it might here yet so assail
My love, and foulest fate wrest her from me;
That every jubilation prized be lost,
That sweetest day succumb to tyrant storm,
That precious jewel into the main be tossed
And death devour the finest flower earth bore.
These are the heavy thoughts my soul now bears,
This loss far greater than the world shall know
That such a worth by every measure fair
Take leave of light and to black shadows go.
Here so I state through might of living breath;
There bides a fate that is far worse than death.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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