Sonnet XXXIII
A poem
San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk (Claude Monet, 1908)
The taste as yet untasted is almost Enough to sate, the silent unplucked chord Sufficiently enthrilling; not the coast First sighted but the empty map onward Compels the hungry heart. Who hasn't felt The sympathetic thrill of untouched thought, Or almost seen the shrouding shadows melt, Paid near in full the vict'ry dearly bought? The gleam of that untravelled world, the thrum Of resonance disturbing this thin veil, The music of the distant funeral drum, The dusk-light wind that puffs this mortal sail, Conspires to craft this fervent urge; I must, I must not rest, nor hoard familiar dust.
"I must not rest, nor hoard familiar dust." It's remaining in what's comfortable that impedes us from finding more--more joy, more treasure, more thrill. Beautiful sonnet! The flow of enjambment gives the form a different air.
Thomas, your sonnet truly is masterful! I've very much enjoyed it.