A Sonnet of Farewell

ix.

Where the hawk may go is no concern to
Me. Hanging lazily on the current
And hunting fresh prey. Would you have me do
no less, as if it were or it weren't
Within the poor power of failing aim
To strike at the heart and be so stricken.
There's no loss in this, nor to any gain
Can there be. Each day hardens and thickens
And all sense becomes idle and dull. We
Are a counterpoint, you and I. Each one
To follow its own course, in unity,
But separate, the fire of two hot suns.
Good hunting, I say, be your troubles few.
With regret I go, but to myself am true.

Tags: poetry, sonnet