Depression's Sonnet IV

If love, the dream of all, is mine in chance,
A chance persuaded by the breathless end,
Shall I conclude that I am in a trance?
Or ponder love and death’s unlikely blend?
—To dream of love, to live in dreams, to sleep
In death where dreams are kings o’er love’s insides,
Ah, death does aid the man who cannot weep,
And love does soak the soul that is too dry;
If death do dream of love’s resplendent flaws,
Then I, a dreamer, must abort to prove,
That love, in death, is fairest of them all,
And not the same morose, evasive muse;
My dearest love shall live where love is kept:
In beauteous dreams that taunt young men to death.