Sonnet 13

Sonnet 13
March 31, 2013

To he who rises stealthily and stern,
to whom my hostelry I warrant not,
to he whose echoes silently I spurn,
whose rumblings serve to make my spirit hot:

Thy nature, cold and calculating, spites
thy fiery and capricious countenance
which manifests thro' many restless nights
and offers me, thy host, no recompense.

Ah, curse thou vile and wretched thing, Ennui;
with pleasure do I seek to thee malign!
From whence does come this thought that thou art free
to cast such plight amid this life of mine?

So stealthy is thy rise, such grief withal;
let joyful be thy swift and deaf'ning fall.