My lost heart hath resurfac'd: in my throat.
Call'd up by thee, glimps'd on his errant path...
He doth acknowledge, while I fear, thy wrath,
But more the kind infection of thy note.
At thy permissions' changing have I wrote
New figures for this heart; my eyes that hath
Cast them down before love's invading swath
Do slay this godling ere thou hast me smote.
Thy entrance is deni'd, love sacrific'd,
In less than noble aim: reck'd to the point
Of vice, sharpened on the hone of shame,
Run through my heart where gentle prod suffic'd.
I cry the feckless daemon to aroint,
Guardeth my wall to ev'ry other name!
Structures
Daemon-boatman Charon doth await
To row me o'er the Styx to structured Hell;
Its deeper hierarchy, deeper well
Of suffering's more lively to relate
Than even bliss in broad and shallow Heav'n:
Complexity's a longing to complete...
A simple virgin passing on the street,
The bard will build a muse with what he's giv'n.
Nor had Petrarch of Laura any joy
Such as I've had of thee. O, dost thou rede?
Web-weaving will consume a poet's skill
As any spider doth her strands deploy...
They catch the dew like tears, without a need.
Thou art not there. I know. I love thee still.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXIII