Sonnet

Since we will vanish, oh my one, my own,

Together with the burnt out candle’s flame,

And nothing, nothing, meriting the name

Of You or Me remain, though bright we’ve shown;

Since too no verses, certainly not mine,

Can hold the light or stand against the dark,

No lines recall a glow, no rhymes a spark,

And this is true, although you are divine—

Divine, I say, I also (if with scars),

Two miracles of thought, will, passion, breath,

But since stone blind to miracles is death,

Who snuffs as well as spirits, worlds and stars,

Therefore love me while we burn and be—

Thus purest logic, truest poetry.