Sonnet #1

James R. Muri
Copyright 1999

Why dost thine image inflame my pleas'd eye
And there reside e'en tho I hopeless weep?
Thou art not free to hear my raptured sigh
Nor fill my dreams when e’re I restless sleep.
Tho for thine hand I wouldst oft eager plead
Were not it firm clasped in that of thy mate;
Alas I cannot, sorely tho do I bleed
Heartwound’d by this untimed twist of fate.
Thou told me not of thine entanglement.
When laughed we first and told each saucy tales,
Smitten-eye’d I sipp’d your bedevilment.
Your charm quaffed I as though of finest ales.
Now that at loss for thine hand must I be,
Thy flame shall only burn in memory.

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