Sonett-Forum

Once I was young, and fancy was my all
My love, my joy, my grief, my hope, my fear,
And ever ready as an infant’s tear,
Whate’er in Fancy’s kingdom might befall,

Some quaint device had Fancy still at call,
With seemly verse to greet the coming cheer.
Such grief to soothe, such airy hope to rear,
To sing the birth-song, or the funeral

Of such light love, it was a pleasant task;
But ill accord the quirks of wayward glee,
That wears affliction for a wanton mask,

With woes that bear not Fancy’s livery;
With Hope that scorns of Fate its fate to ask,
But is itself its own sure destiny.