Your love, in match with mine, still will disgrace me,

For my love being far too great, or yours too humble;

And still make the natives laugh, and the village rumble;

Or yet to deem me a thieve, and you in kind, and in foolery.

Therefore the strife within me takes more heat

Like a flaming furnace with further coals,

Heats up my sleep on the hammock, and wander my thoughts like lost souls;

So are my nights hot, the suns of my days threefold lit –

For now the love I bear to you cannot I give forth,

Though in my custody it grows wild and rears to eat me up;

And yet should I give you this, and you by giving me mine, should that top –

Still prowls a disgrace about, waiting to devour me in my low self-worth!

Then I cool this fight with one peaceful doubt,

That you lie in your love; and kill now that love in me, before it comes out!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on June 15, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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