My only love sprung from my only hate,
Too early seen, and known too late:
Prodigious birth of love it is to me
That I must love a loathed enemy.
Without this be the miracle, the feat,
The same, who through sharp fire and edge-tools,
And boiling pitch was to his judgment brought,
Yet living left them all behind at last:
For he no farther seeks than just to stand
Where those great flames do burn from thence to fetch
His fuel; there he does his passion feed:
There doth he force his fancy’s utmost bent.
But here is both fire and fuel wanting.
There gentle hearts do live in blissful ignorance;
There pity never comes but when it goes.
Or if it come it comes too slow! Too slow!
This is an award-winning poem about The Shadow
    of the dome of pleasure floating midway on the waves;
    that needs a proper ending.
Alas, the sonnet’s rules, I have forgotten.

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