276 and 277
You may have gotten an extra accidental email today with sonnet 310! You’ll see that one again when it comes in order. A slip into the future for you!
~~~
Be clever, love. Be roguish, if you must,
be altogether cunning, and be shrewd.
You must be so if you will ever trust
the ways I love, be they so rough and crude.
It was not ever mine to know the ways
of bards like Byron or like Raleigh, wry.
Mine always were the kinds of love-struck days
that only written words can truly spy.
Do piece together this dark puzzle, dear,
and use your every wit to see the score:
it never was more clear than written here:
my love for thee has never yet been more.
The rest of me will never have a clue,
but lines like these know how I starve for you.
~~~
A battle never had more glory won
than that which was upon a dying bed
by one whose exit had by sick begun
but reassured his friends ‘til he was dead.
No fame as felled by sword and spear was more
than his whose was by malady bewrought.
The glory of the gauntlet is a bore
compared with he who, with a cancer, fought.
There are a many great young souls who die
in battle by the blade in countries far.
Their lays shall be relayed, but tell no lie:
there are so many more who sickness spar.
Do not forget to honor those who fade
by Phoebus’ arrow, not the gleaming blade.