a sonnet on a humanistic theme
As on old Priam’s distant, Trojan shores
The passions of the heart ruleth all men
Sensation and sensuality, more
Difficult to undo than a dozen
Interlaced, interwoven Celtic knots.
High on the banks of the old Scamander
Caught by cold deception and passion, hot,
A wretched knight is left with no grandeur
And his internal wildness ever reigns.
Death is the inevitable result.
As with Palomides after great pains
Lost the Questing Beast, failed to gain Isuelt–
So too is this the whole of man’s great worth;
His own devices: only toil and work.