Sonnet 433

Sweet love remembered, silent tears do fall
Upon my breast wherein that heart you hold,
While muted murmurs stalk the vacant hall
And whisper in the hearth that now lies cold.
Oh love more rare than any love may be:
A moment held, and in a moment gone,
And of such loss, despair to ever see,
Eternal aching left to me alone.
For but a second yet to hold your hand,
To kiss those lips in pleasure more sublime,
To hold you in my arms in rapture grand—
Perchance I’ll be forgiven yet in time.
One line of this perhaps, I pray you’ll  read,
And crush my heart or yet grant me reprieve.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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