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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