And struggling I was from early morn,
Before the birds ventured out a singing,
Somnolent and tired still the yawning dawn,
Over anxious to get some opening,
Hoping, hope eternal would deliver
My thing duly gift-wrapped in grey silver.
But nor came light, nor it killed ignorance,
In hope I waited all through restless day,
All evening, despairing day when gave way
To night that came with same stony silence
Which said: what ye look for can sure be out,
If rid art thou of a niggling old doubt.
Muse inspires, even conceives but can't sire,
Man must perspire for apple of desire. ____________________________________________________
Writer's block is quite common to all who write, especially poems. Early dawn's dream gives some opening baits, but not quite. And you await your muse ever since. This sonnet is born from such prenatal pangs.
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Sonnets | 07.01.05 |
Thank you Bernard for your encouragement. I've read a few of your poems, especially one on love, and really liked. They have a striking appeal. Regards
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful sonnet. Real trouble is in bag when Desire To perspire expires. It’s a pleasure to read your poetry.