How Barnes sings of my--what? til I see thence Tis folly to writhe on this dainty scale, Love's net a golden one, I might avail Me of content if I forget this hence. These weary heavns, fatigued as I, wear sense In blank white's ***** racks, the hours to pale Light givn, how maples own vague silence, frail Winds tickling 'non the leaves to whisper. Whence? I have begged Joe for more. He listened fer All that. I've emailed, called him twice, and do Ya know, e'en texted him. But that was poor. It's "see you Thursday." That is all. Go to. The minutes wasting, dunno what he'd stir. Nor have I yet another to think'd woo.
Check out Barnabe Barnes "Sweet Content" sonnet, for an antique tribute to the misery and madness of being in love.