Much Too Generous

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Much Too Generous

Sonnet — An Invocation To The Master #376

Oh much too generous are Thy graces,
The gifts unending plied on my being
Through a dolours procession of seasons,
A sore bounty only for my keeping.

A perennial loss to shame an autumn
The withering parts that snap and fall,
Springtime a spell silent and solemn
Bearing all the gaiety of brooding hell.

And affronts, oh the affronts aplenty
Loosened from some malignant purse
To scuttle all norms of propriety 
And leaving me alone the woes to nurse.

Oh much too generous are all Thy graces,
I buckle under the burden of Thy grim excess.