Sonnet IX

The pen has stopped this weak and humble mind,
And truth made blind these quick and fading eyes.
Thoughts dance about, those which do move behind
Fall's cold and dying sun. This love, it dies,
When placed beneath the face of judging life.
But when it sees the dreams and fates of man
It grows against the parting sorrow's strife
And does grow strong in spite of time's own span.
So why do I leave torment for this love,
That dies and lives again as with the tide?
Perhaps it moves with fate from God above
Or with strange thoughts, with logic pushed aside.
I've never yet to set this love to fade
Else it would die in others' lasting shade.