Sir Thomas Wyatt, another favourite poet… here is such a sweet sonnet; he was a man of such mastery over image, his poems are so lyrical that they leap across the centuries and speak to us still. He was born over five hundred years ago in 1502 and died before he was forty; he was a friend and maybe lover of Anne Boleyn… but more of that another time. isn’t this a gorgeous little poem?

 

My galley charged with forgetfulness
Through sharp seas in winter nights doth pass
Tween rock and rock, and eke my foe (alas)
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness.
And every oar, a thought in readiness,
As though that death were light in such a case;
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness;
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark distain,
Have done the wearied cords great hinderance;
Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance,
The stars be hid that lead me to this pain.
Drowned is reason that should me consort,
And I remain, despairing of the port

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