252. Wherein He Regrets That, Having Written His Sonnets to Assuage His Own Sorrow, He Had Not Laboued to Render Them Worthier of Their Renown -
WHEREIN HE REGRETS THAT, HAVING WRITTEN HIS SONNETS TO ASSUAGE HIS OWN SORROW, HE HAD NOT LABOURED TO RENDER THEM WORTHIER OF THEIR RENOWN
Ah, had I ever thought the world would care
To hear my sorrows and my hopes rehearse,
I should have wrought more cunning in my verse
Under the dark compulsion of despair.
Dead is my Muse who by a golden hair
Strangles the soul of song and weaves a curse
On my proud power as on my universe,
Choking the words that would my grief declare.
And, of a truth, my overwhelming aim
Was only, Heaven knows how, to give full vent
To my sick heart and not to flatter fame:
And could I now obtain the sweet content
Of earthly approbation, it were tame —
She calls me to a richer sacrament!
Ah, had I ever thought the world would care
To hear my sorrows and my hopes rehearse,
I should have wrought more cunning in my verse
Under the dark compulsion of despair.
Dead is my Muse who by a golden hair
Strangles the soul of song and weaves a curse
On my proud power as on my universe,
Choking the words that would my grief declare.
And, of a truth, my overwhelming aim
Was only, Heaven knows how, to give full vent
To my sick heart and not to flatter fame:
And could I now obtain the sweet content
Of earthly approbation, it were tame —
She calls me to a richer sacrament!
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