All English Sonnets
I myself striding on my weary back
Is bent upon to drive me like my fate;
It blesses me with such a cheerful knack
To keep in check my jealousies and hate,
I continue to move towards my end
And ask the staunchest foe, the truest friend,
The burning lamp is smoking, tell me why
Some obstacle is hampering the supply
Of oil to its wicks and the flame
Is flickering, although air is very still.
And on its own volition, its own will,
It seems to make the end its very aim
And this, Myself, through my humiliation
Is searching for my final destination.