Sonnet 473

In guilt she told him of our meetings there
Beneath the trees down by the ancient mill;
Long afternoons of summer gave no care
Nor did we heed the keen of whippoorwills.
All love is grand and stolen apples sweet;
To what is blind there add yet deaf and dumb.
No greater joy to rage in lust complete
And in soft arms exalt the rising moon.
Soon we would be together evermore,
So read the note the page boy gave to me;
I dropped that paper softly to the floor
Then swiftly packed the things that I would need.
I did not hear him knock the fatal dart —
Nor did I feel the iron pierce my heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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