Sonett-Forum

MY fair, look from those turrets of thine eyes
Into the ocean of a troubled mind,
Where my poor soul, the bark of sorrow, lies,
Left to the mercy of the waves and wind.
See where she floats, laden with purest love,
Which those fair islands of thy looks afford,
Desiring yet a thousand deaths to prove,
Than so to cast her ballast overboard.
See how her sails be rent, her tacklings worn,
Her cable broke, her surest anchor lost ;
Her mariners do leave her all forlorn,
Yet how she bends towards that blessed coast !
Lo, where she drowns in storms of thy displeasure,
Whose worthy prize should have enriched thy treasure.