Sonnet CLXXIII:
The thoughts that snarl about my heels by day,
And track me homeward with persistent care,
Turn round and round, then settle on their lair,
In watchful sleep, and growl their dreams away.
O loathsome hounds, your savage howl and bay,
Your ruffian courage, and your fangs that tear,
At length are quiet, and the circling air,
Murmurs with peace above the ended fray.
A light surrounds me such as never fell
From star, or moon, or heaven’s imperial sun—
Joy for the senses and the soul in one;
And yet no better than an outer shell
Around that splendor where my love doth dwell,
Throned in such state as man ne’er looked upon.
