SONNET 106
How Romantics-thereafter flare a diff'rent flare
Found invention opportune though 'nfer 'nd conceded
A thousand knives from below, whose honor's quelled fair
And distant their bold impressions so rampant bled
Into sensibil'ty; yet, lo the forbidden
Name of control margins us rendered for true love.
Be it, however, an art or verse? Conspiréd
Dreams disfav'ring bleak horizons profound for love.
Love is not in the air. Love is the air; every
Breath we breathe and exhale all so'nd too suddenly
From paltry will the willing maid or damsel free,
All too sudden alive; rarely born until glee
Of now wills alike a victim, rectified souls
So selfish, and yet, coherent our godly woes.
