Sonnet XIX

Perhaps these words would serve as futile spears
That dented not the heart but warming air,
And if they be then I be moved to tears
That fall not for a loss but her lacked care.
I fear she does not know what lies beneath
These cloaked-and-daggered rhymes, or if she know
At all that these be writ 'neath cunning's sheath
For her to see affections on new snow.
But then my thoughts draw far from ill-struck hope
And wander in the quiet stars of peace;
That she might know the gravity and scope
Of these and let my heart rest now with ease.
To you, I call, reflect my growing plight
With words of yours or ease me from your sight.