All English Sonnets
Love, hold your dagger, let me count my wounds
Some closed, some closing and a few still agape
Withhold and leash your furious, snarling hounds
Till I apply some balm and find some tape.
Then all – anew you wield this dagger sharp,
With thrust and cut, you open up my heart.
On this my luckless plight, but do not harp
Come, I am willing, bring your dagger, start.
These bleeding cuts will give me blood to write
With venom of this sorry testament ,
That life is. And let me for a mite
Hold court and brook no bar or argument.
Love give me such a brisk and tireless pen
That when I write, I write of love of men.