Sonnet 398

Blaze autumn leaves illumine things I know
But none more poignant than of passing time;
That every thing the living earth bestows
Enjoys at best a closely measured prime.
The peak of man, a many seasoned reign
Much longer than the span of leaf or flower,
Fair still his pleasured essence sure to wane
There with the dregs of time to rest his hour.
What can one do but yet enjoy the bloom
That is here granted by that unseen hand;
For none it seems rejoice within the tomb
Save worms which scriptured augurs countermand.
Thus what rings true of that beyond the grave;
Should  here and now e’re yet that promise waive?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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