|Stag : series I (White Hart).|
NOT A SONNET.
As sad as thou hast whispered to my time,
and focused thy sweet care abreast of mine;
As thou hast let my wandering shadow slip and climb
along the very street thou in thy soul design.
So sad the figure wandering on the hill,
that it has wandered out of shape, and wanders still...
The variance of thy love, no substance makes,
For there be little of the seed in dark and dew.
The more thy pliance gives, the more it takes,
until the black o'erspreads the field from which it grew.
Alas the hillside, shivering and bare
That with her fading love, did leave me there.