Sonnets XII & XIII

XII.

It seems as though, in some kinds of despair,
each little thing that people do or say
is one more symptom of the human flair
for petty evil, driving Truth away,

And when despair is of a type more rare,
the tiny details seem to small to pay
attention: hopeless, pointless. I don't care
to notice them; my mind is prone to stray.

No matter what I do, I seem to bear
this heavy grief. I'm garish moral gray,
the very evil I despise. An air
of failure swirls, demanding that I stay.

Like tasteless food, the worthless oaths I swear
can have no consequence. I weep and pray.


XIII.

I fall in reverence at Hebe’s feet!
The nectar and ambrosia revealed
by her so unattainable conceit
are reasons that my awe is unconcealed.

Thus I, her fearless cupbearer, compete
to be her knight, into her morning-wheeled,
bright chariot to lift her, to complete
the child that gossamer and cobweb healed.

I fear among the chaff will fall the wheat:
the world seems poised to overthrow this field,
to drag her virtue through the muddy street,
to use true lies to bare what is concealed.

If I were not affected by deceit!
If only I could be that sturdy shield!