Sonnet

Wither all the endless canons of observance,
Of norms and means and a vast restraint,
For here is a whim’s arbitration reckless
That counts no modesty or free consent.

What hath alloyed the hours, what catalyst will
Warps the routine, the learnt hard won lesson,
Like a familiar dream face of foreign ill
Planting a poison-seed upon sleeping bosom.

What is this fertile desert, this barren spring,
A caricature for summer or a parched winter?
How many upendings must Thou perforce bring
Into my human day and night to prepare

Thy unknown, unseeable felicities most rare?
Oh the churns and turns for Thee we endure!