Sonnet 418

I dash lines down upon that placid page

Pure white, unstained, fresh torn from untouched book,

And strike point down my gall in black inked rage

Not sure of what you gave, or what I took—

Now in excusive verse I here confess

That hearts bewitched by ardor so attain

A fever of the soul that cannot rest

Until all hope’s desire lies burned in flame.

The deed is done, that pyre now ashes cold

While we reflect in angst all bearing there;

Of love or lust, our story not fair told

For who to judge in spite, what souls may bare?

They will forgive us, those who’ve truly loved,

The rest, perhaps these ardent lines may move.

Loubert S Suddaby poems