Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #28
Did I in some age long gone undone leave
Some grave penance to Thee foresworn
That Thou must such harshness conceive
To besiege all parts of my scanty person?
A maelstrom is upon every haggard limb
And breath to iron horses is tethered,
The mind is waned to an impoverished orb
And all works to futility is condemned.
I swoon and awake by involuntary motion
Like a lone migratory bird voyaging
Through cloud-besieged skies all alone
With no sight of a reprieve appearing.
Raise me now from this dismal groove,
That Thou couldst be merciful forthwith prove.