Sonnet XXXIV

A poem

David and Jonathan (Gustave Doré, 1866)

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The rose before me is the one I love,
Though any other would have touched me so
And for this is not cheap for being of
That beauty accidental. But I know
Of other things, like summers, winters, storms,
Whose timely touch pushed me, in turn, to grow
Like clay under the potter's hand that forms;
Like trees that bend before the west wind's blow.
Still more are those that break the skin and force
Their way into my flesh that I can't tell
What is my heart, what theirs; whose fatal course
Is intertwined till chime the funeral bells.
For such are friends, but you and I this last
That shall endure when all else shall have passed.

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