Sonnet: I Muse Over

At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over

The quality of anguish that is mine

Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine

Saying, "Is any else thus, anywhere?"

Love smileth me, whose strength is ill to bear;

So that of all my life is left no sigh

Except one thought; and that, because 'tis thine,

Leaves not the body but abideth there.

And then if I, whom other aid forsook,

Would aid myself, and innocent of art

Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope,

No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look

Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart,

And all my pulses beat at once and stop.