Say hello to Sir Thomas. He is surely up for some poetry. Sir Thomas being of course the brilliant Tudor courtier and poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt, who’s taken to visiting while I’m working.
He first came through while I was reading his biography Graven with diamonds. He’s quite a frequent guest, and a pleasant company.
My muse is lame, it sings not to be heard,
But to reclaim the lute that broken lieth,
My muse is lame, yet full of spite and hurt
As heart of mine is chained to yours – alas!
Wherever roameth silent, ardent thought,
The heart, it meekly followes suit –
Wherever cries the sould, so frail and flawed,
The heart, it bleeds all dark and mute.
Forgive the heart that restess flies to you-
It knows not how to leave your face behind.
Forgive the verse that ringeth sharp and true
It has your name engraved in every line.
Oh do not judge so hard the one that yearns
For your embrace, your voice upon the wind,
He is a fool, for he himself condones
For loving you against his will!
Into the Unknown 