Sonnet CLXXVII:
Idle I am, if it be idleness
To chirp and warble in this way to thee;
Flinging a thread of slenderest melody
Slight as the gossamer’s far-floating tress.
Yet even that film the morning dews may dress,
And heaven transmute them by her alchemy
To silvered pearls, till empty fantasy
Seem real as aught the doubting senses guess.
Love, at the idlest, is a busy thing.
His dreams are histories with achievements rife;
His peace is heaven’s; his war hell’s frantic strife.
How that a heart, forever on the wing
‘Twixt joys and griefs—the sum of human life—
Is taxed as idle, sets me marveling.
