Sonnet CCXLVII:
Love is the source of all my griefs, ’tis true,
But ’tis the source of all my joys as well;
I would not break the glamor of its spell,
To reign the master of this mortal crew.
My joyous seasons have been brief and few;
Nor can I reckon up the days that tell
My many sorrows, nor the cares that dwell
Here at a heart long banished from thy view.
This is my comfort: every grief or joy
That rules today, and every hope I see
Smile through the gloom of boding destiny—
Each thought, sense, memory—aye, the flimsy toy
My fancy plays with, childlike, to destroy—
All we call life, I owe alone to thee.
