Grieved, doubtless unintentionally, by a friend some few hours ago, and spending the succeeding time wrestling with my frustration, seeking refuge and relief in WNIU's offerings as well as returning to my scanty selection of Drummond of Hawthornden in Mains' anthology, this somehow chanced to begin. I must confess it was much too fun to write. [But does my writing to such an imaginary fellow worsen my chances of his existence?]
(sonnet # DC)
Write if it suit your fancy thus to tease
Some tender sorrow with soft eloquence
In melancholic theme; to temper sense
Of ecstasy perhaps, as well to please
That odd perverseness, lest Love's harmonies
Become by far too sweet? His excellence
Half wants such griefs as if a blue pretense
Might strengthen his caress and jubilees.
Or you will disagree? If, Valentine,
Those richer shades of azure's hue can woo
The soul to heights 'tween golden leaves, might wine
Improve by ruby's claret gaze the view
Once thought sublime? Do not the best refine
Their serenades with sighs? Wilt thou outdo?
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