Sonnet 523

I met with Wordsworth one embattled night
At least some rancor so I thought he bore,
Perhaps of numbers not of words to gripe
For then I had but evened up the score.
We drank the sullied night until the dawn
And there I sadly learned what broke his pen;
It was his lovely Dora, heaven gone
That razed him to the ranks of mortal men.
Some say he died of simple pleurisy
But he confirmed it was a broken heart
That so defied the Physics there to see
The growing pain from whence he did depart.
He shook my hand and so did bid me well,
More of this congress… I shall never tell.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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