SONNET 114
Perched th' over-sickle brands me down gleaming iron,
Lustrous 'sif to bring me 'way from melancholy
Crows daybreak slunk between cracks of shipyard iron
'Way 'ts own lightning felled our moon down with it. From the
Sky, nights after whose summit pruned, bare auroral
Bounty elapsed the fond austere adjourns o'er there
Of diver's luck transits a river diurnal
Though 'f Assam. Its pebbles dulled the hate of Reaper's
Hurl frustratingly allows another day, but
So thermal, creeping plants down there I came to lie
Chose me a purer drop no longer meant to putt;
Ubiquitous a sand-watch; language of the fly
And flowers overcast the last of the noon's firsts,
I'll make anew. Forests are but a driven hearse.
