Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #219
How unfair is this game of Thine
Pitting for impossibility’s pleasure
My ragged body and sagged vein
To match Thy force’s measure?
Dost Thou not see am but a lark
Caught in the storms of Thy design,
The heart tires and sight gone dark,
Only a few flaps of wings yet remain.
Who counselled to Thee this duel
Of Thy immortality and my mortality,
Oh what pleasure in this match cruel
To humour the gods by my tragedy!
Not first this dire fascination of my soul,
Thou must forthwith restrain that impudent fool.