Sonnet CXXII:
If this be sorrow, I have never known
The faintest touch of human grief till now—
That utter woe, o’erbrooding heart and brow,
With which the lines of sad-eyed poets groan.
For once, when fortune’s dismal trump was blown,
I had the strength to dare the coming blow;
In her wild lists her gauntlet I could throw,
And beard the proudest arms that ever shone.
But now the strokes that beat me down, descend
In softest touches of a love so kind
That I half wonder if ’tis ill designed;
And blessing her, I cry, ‘Achieve thy end!
The first blow is the deadliest from a friend!
Behold, I stand before thee, shorn and blind!’
