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SONNET 7
We are the playthings of a darkling's lights. We are the toys of winter in the spring Who give our fruit to summer's joyous nights Who never hear the bell of autumn ring. We are the dreamers who would dance with clouds. We are the soldiers who believe we know Who makes the world in all its shadowed shrouds, Who praise ourselves and see no gentle glow In flights of spirits hidden from the eye. All this are we and more, of nothing nothing, Borne like seedlings on a summer's sigh, Unable to be modest, humble, doubting. Goodness gives and does not know itself, That all is riches, even poverty's wealth.
SONNET 90
Some are not destined for the rose of fame But buried, ear-marked, for unknown shadows, Doomed to walk the path that's labeled shame, Where just or unjust no one cares or knows. A sense of justice rises in my heart Demanding truth, a hearing for my case, An open mind that tears the lies apart And shows my sadness to the human race. A voice within me cries out to be heard, To right my wrongs, to set my honor straight, To catch what's decent in a single word. But silent justice is my lasting fate. A sad thing, this: To be thought so repugnant. When will ears hear, eyes see, and time recant?
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Copyright [C] 1997, 1998 by James Webster Sherwood - All Rights Reserved
Trade Paperback, Stitch Bound, Size: 5 x 7 112 pages, ISBN # 0-9661961-0-4 Retail: $12 + Shipping/Handling $2
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