Poems

Sonnet VIII: Homesick

Home, if such a place exist, lies not here
For where I hang my hat is just respite
From that which satisfies but cannot cheer
My heart, which finds life's labors worth but slight

Sme think my soul seeks peace in fame's embrace
And for this venture I upon the stage
As if to find in every unknown face
Some true measure by which my life to gauge

And should perchance, I be so great a fool
To see my joy in random beauty's eye
And in so doing be a witless tool
I my undoing for brief passion's sigh?

Till this poor frame grows still and wet with dew
I seek no home but what I find with you.

posted by Dan Wilson @ 3:37 PM