The rich loses peace, the poor loses time.

My anxious Love is rich so, and enjoys no peace;

And I the lover am poor, and lose years to my disease –

So I and my love, dying both, in suffering do rhyme!

My rich Love heavily moans that he is not refunded,

And I sob for my lack, since gold may buy my lady;

And cause her favours to fall upon me –

As my Love, full of richness, like grapes too ripe, breaks and soon’s dead!

But should I in this agony lose my life for your sake

By lean penury, like children in the pouch of gluttonous War;

I newly become rich, paying debts to you no more:

And when falls my Love, seed to ground, he another life does take!

So am I enriched by death as I forget you –

But my rich Love poor grows, as his despair old and new!


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

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