I limp now in my sphere, like the moon evected…

I limp now in my sphere, like the moon evected,

Beholding this great sun, by everywho gaped –

Who with her sweet fire refines all heaven,

And moieties that favour from heaven to earth even.

I my golden influence miss, that was power,

Whereby got the sea with child, and gave eye pitch-night;

And now myself as heavy, and as night lose sight,

Under incubi lovers brook, her light all too nigh.

A stranger thing befalls me, when the world notes me

In love, than wights that loved erst, nor that yet will be!


Undistinguish’d in my storms as the sea taken at the neap,

I know myself scant, transmuted to tenors muted,

Sleep small when sleep be not of her, of her sleep dead –

That they by, fearing me dead, come full near to weep;

Waked, nothing see I, unless that she be in view,

Talking talk a seething pottage of incoherence,

To bane ears a havoc, till she be hallooed thence

To draw out threads of rags, and recover them new!

In a creel, I am carp’d a most crippled thing,

Pickled in spleen, since some crafty mermaid’s angling!


Love that spares nor Adams nor Eves, brutes, elks, goslings –

‘Neath command of his shaft keeps titans underlings!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on June 12, 2016 · Posted in Braindrops On Yellow Leaves, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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