Sonnet VI: Honour's Ends
As meagre pieces cross a checkered board
and pawns oppressed may rise to prominence
to crown themselves with lustrous coronets
of box or ebony, I seek to ford
the troubled waters driving me toward
oblivion. ‘Woe!’ I cry, and ask from whence
my sorrows hail, what terrible offense
bade Fate with grief assail my gentle heart—
Living was easier long ago, in youth,
when days were spent twixt love and literature,
when I was younger, bolder, more uncouth
and free. Revising life, I would ensure
my younger self would know the wicked truth:
that honour’s ends are wounds without a cure.
