Sonnet CXXXVII:
Ever a darkness somewhere in the sun,
Ever less lustre in the stars at night,
Ever the presence of some deadly blight
Betwixt my senses and the world will run.
Weary of woman, sick of man, I shun
Their harmless antics and their prattle light,
As though the silly things did me despite,
And mocked the misery of a wretch undone.
Is this a darkness of the heart alone?
A partial blindness towards the things I see
Not as they are, but through my fantasy?
Or was it, Darling, that thy brightness shone
The glory that enveloped earth and me,
Which now, with thee, is blotted out and gone?
