Lies not one wretch woebegoner than I…

Lies not one wretch woebegoner than I;

That fly Love and go about seeking to be yours:

Whenas lackwit shoot himself to ‘scape the wars,

So I kill myself in fearing to die.

Ay me, my fortunes true south head going by you,

For, why, like to a revolution rounding about,

The way whereby I you escape to you lead out,

From you running away same way away to you:

As one half the world cries to die, bewrayed by his own fame;

Thus to do that’s will, dies under the farthel of a great name!


Thou asphalt’st me the road leads to my self, to my self yet come,

Grow homesick I for thee, death-white as souls outlaw’d far from home;

For since within had I mine eyes lie wrynecks much about me,

Heedful the least wave, which but now insurg’d renders houseless me;

The wherefore why I break ranks with my self to seek out your camp,

Whilst wounded self, many degrees my mightier,

Storms and swears his thin-ribb’d life on beneap’d revenge to the scamp

That defects to impair his side, but drives him the far fiercer:

Yet all’s table ‘fore jibers, though he makes war on my small life,

New betimber’d with juster powers of a maternal wife:


What fear then, righted in mighty love, loved of a mighty right;

But rest unscrattled in her cabin-love, sic us whate’er might?!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on September 16, 2016 · Posted in Braindrops On Yellow Leaves, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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