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SONNET XIII.
Why dost thou haunt me with thy bright wild eyes
Through the long sleepless night? when I should be
Plodding through tomes of old divinity,
And learning to be holy, pure, and wise,
And worthy to obtain that twofold prize
I pant for—Immortality and thee.
Oh! my sweet friend, I fear my phantasy
Clings to thee over fondly; in the skies
I have no hope, no purpose, no desire
With which thou minglest not; and if I lose
Thy love on earth, I fear lest I should tire
Of life's dull race too soon, and, in the dearth
Of my twice crush'd affections, cease to aspire
To the lone bliss of an immortal birth.
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