Sonett-Forum

"Farewell, thou are too dear for my possessing!"
How could he know, who thus consenting sung,
Of the white beauties, the shot gloom oppressing
Cloudlike my heart and tempestlike my tongue!
For he sang love when you were uncreate;
Nor all his skill could pass the shore of birth
To prophesy you, come a wanderer late,
Walking in new and starry fire the earth.
Sublime his power, who could such fairness mould
Without this pattern set before his eye!
His song pours sunward: mine, alternate cold
And flame shake till its chant becomes a cry!
Yet had he seen,--then too his subtle art
Had crashed beneath the whirlwinds of my heart!