Ah, a Sonnet: O, Fate

Is this which we speak of that famous love?

Is it the glorious noted green sea
which, with mine ears, I have before heard of?

A gift, a soul to have, a piece of me.

 

The people say a force to touch, to daunt.

A satisfying kiss to one’s sweet lips.

No, say I, they talk like pawns of dreams they haunt.

Love is a liquid dream which fools do sip.

 

But I have never heard, nor seen this love–
such a melodious peal of gold bells.

I know of no such shy white-feathered dove
who burns in two souls such the fire of Hell.

 

Yet, though this lily-white ideal I hate,
I wish to have died having loved, o fate.

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