Mary Stuart

(1542-1587 / Scotland)

Sonnet To Lord Bothwell - 11 - Poem by Mary Stuart

My heart, my blood, my soul and my great care,
Alas you promised we should have the pleasure
Of whiling away the hours at leisure
All night long with you, but I languish here.
My heart pierced through by fear's most wounding dart,
Because I know not where my heart's desire may be.
I'm stricken with fear that you've forgotten me.
Sometimes I'm frightened that your loving heart
May have hardened against me through being misled
By what some spiteful gossip may have said.
And sometimes I fear a mishap on the way
Has turned my lover from his true intent
By some adversity or accident.
May God turn all such evil signs away!


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, September 14, 2010



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