Ah, aka JF suggesting I could pull off "4 or 5 sonnets"--I took that and this was the final in that half hour just before midnight.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXL)


Ya, we sipped tea where whitish tendrils thence
Drew up that airy note of yonder, pale
And ghostly, likeas spirits in betrayl
E'er non in sheer ascent, with toast fr'intents
Ne conversation but that hallowed sense
Of I don't know what, til my brother'd hail--
Then talk, and back to work upon that scale,
While I waltzed through a dream like's not pretense.
Now as the furnace growls, the Scriptures fer
All that in Revelation, nothing's new.
Yet I'm confused.  How midnight knocks in tour,
The myriad influence of all I knew
Half urging me to chase down sleep to cure
This madness.  But that's not Thy Scripture's cue.

01Apr19d