Sonnet Two.

Would not I carry my rugged pride When element to element will mingle and reside In perfumed consummation of interstellar space In a new planet cast out of Brahama’s rage For ever wishing my nibbled pen could trace A line of haughty verse to silence the deadly state The world’s affairs And all its cloud clapped might But ends in poor surrender shorn of man’s pride Shorn of all honour when our tattered rags do show The imprints of tempters all their dishonest row Then we hate to touch our mortgaged flesh and bone When souls are slaughtered in church yards of rhone It might have been better to explore salient venues The spirit of dark waters or some sealed avenues.