Appointed Ills

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Appointed Ills

Sonnet-An Invocation to the Master #261

Oh take them back, take them all back,
Thy laws sour and the fates that glare,
The destiny biding its hour to sack
Our little hopes and our desires fair.

Herd us not like cattle to the pasture
To chew and ruminate on tender folly,
To gaze at sky-eye in luminous vesture 
And return to arms of dreams hazy.

What all dost Thou saddle us with,
A thumb-sized soul pitched against
This ignorance of boundless depth,
Is all semblance of balance forfeit?

Oh, measure the portion of our appointed ills,
For without Thy aid our will trembling withers.