Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc
If ever I had dreamed of my dead
High in the heart of London,
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive,
Fame,
If ever I had dreamed of my dead
High in the heart of London,
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive,
Fame,
White clouds are sailing above the Mountain Jiuyi;
Riding the wind, the Princesses descend the green hills
Once they speckled the bamboos with their profuse tears,
Now they are robbed in rose-red clouds
Now goes under, and I watch it go under, the
That will not rise again
Today has seen the setting, in your eyes cold and senseless as the sea,
Of friendship better than bread, and of bright
The longest tyranny that ever swayed,
Was that wherein our ancestors betrayed Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite,
And made his torch their universal light
So truth, while only one supplied the state,
Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend
The sky groans like one in despair
I have no sleep tonight
Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend
Cleft as the top of the inspired hill,
Struggles the soul of my divided quill,
Whilst this foot doth the watry mount aspire,
That Sinai's living and enlivening fire,
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again
Friends, if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain:
Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind
—He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind
Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,
And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine,
First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault;‘The ideas are good,’ he muttered, ‘but the rhythm se...
It is,
Sir, a confest intrusion here That I before your labours do appear,
Which no loud Herald need, that may proclaim Or seek acceptance, but the Authors fame
Much less that should this happy work commend,
OM
HE
NG
ST
AH
think no more that Life's delusive joys, Can charm my thoughts from
IP'S dearer claim;
Or wound a heart, that scarce a wish employs, For age to censure, or discretion blame