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New Sonnet 4 'Unlike a Spurgeon, I by dull words unfold'
Unlike a Spurgeon, I by dull words unfold
The limits of my Sarah's love for me,
But I realize that the rot and stink and mold
Are all within my mind, beneath my See.
There is no other person who can love
For me. It is my duty and my joy.
It is the Truth that True Love is made of
It is the difference of man from a boy.
I am no counter of the counterfeits
That weigh love by the dram of sweet words said,
But rather, I am one who from above
Receives the gifts whereby he bakes his bread.
Into the practical and humble things
I'll pour my Constancy and give love wings.
Copyright ©
Andrew Fairchild
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