Sonnet 348

I dip my pen into a well of ink,
The blackest blue or yet the bluest black;
A drop upon white paper makes me think
Of thoughts and feelings that my wits contrast;
Of love and hate, happiness and despair,
Feast or famine, truth or lies, wrong or right;
Such difference does it’s part to beg compare
Of what is truly black or truly white.
All things in life are matters of degree
Where estimates of such rest in the mind,
Too oft we reason by pure heart’s decree
Where fevered vision may yet leave us blind.
To see the world in eyes that judge all stark
Is not to view in light, but shades of dark.