Sonnet X

As to a child,

I talked my heart

With empty promise of the coming day,

And it slept rather for my words made

Than from a thought of what their sense did say.

For did it care for sense, would it not

And question closer to the morrow's pleasure?

Would it not edge nearer my words, to

The promise in the meting of its measure?

So, if it slept, 'twas that it cared but

The present sleepy use of promised joy,

Thanking the fruit but for the forecome

Which the less active senses best enjoy.  Thus with deceit do I detain the heart  Of which deceit's self knows itself a part.