Sonnet XIV

The men of old did say that time heals all
With its own passing through the path of days.
Though time be old, it shows no greys that call
To full attent how age has had its ways.
And this be true of love with its own plan:
From time to time the errs in number grow
And judgement sorts the king from peasant man;
Learned lessons stem from unrequited woe.
But he moves on from mem'ries once of love,
Yet too of pain, and loves that never were.
Remembrances, with time, do fly above
That wistful soul when thoughts anew do stir.
Now with his hand, take yours and bid adieu
To this poor soul, who's started now anew.