Silent Sighs

Trials and troubles conjure my words,

Sung or printed, they raise Cain all the same,

Murder, violence, rapine, all assured,

And these, my uncouth rumblings, all to blame.

For my betters—the diviners—have clearly sensed,

Th’ evil spirit pervading ’tween my lines,

That envied monster hid by my pretense,

Whose subtle craft eludes this dullard’s mind.

What fool am I to claim these prophets wrong,

Whence, by their judgment, my meanings are lost,

Their parsed evidence weak, their blind faiths strong,

To them, my poesy, a pittance cost.

Let them fancy o’er their own solemn cries,

I know who listens to my silent sighs.

-Q-

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