See how piteously I gasp under fangs of a bitter world,

For the world I think so long and tedious,

Having expended twenty years past, and seek now quietus –

That, yet young, I feel the harsh winter of Age blowing cold.

But your strange refusal commands a sudden old Age upon my years

With offhanded skill, which hardly being above a year or two,

Inverts silver hairs on my head, deep-delved ridges in my brows too –

A bending of the back, and sinking eyes, as if drowned in tears.

And I submit to know here in earnest, that before your ladyship

Is my person a most abominable thing!

But for that you are, as what I am, do pray be pitying,

To warm my blood again, which but now grows cold, with descending friendship:

If your virulent spite leaves me some years still to live,

What will your most beneficent love, you must wonder, then give?


96 Total Views 1 Views Today

By Sydney Chesterfield on May 5, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry

Sorry, comments are closed on this post.