Sonnet 2 (To W. Elder)
To woe! To woe! I know not why to feel
The sorrow-laden sky hath no good trend,
A sick'ning depth of rift, and all too real,
A day, the day God took away my friend.
Up to high Heaven where pain be no more,
Though here am I, too far away to know
A joy of any kind. Save for the sore,
Naught feel I but that joy should be restored.
Weep I, retch I, lament! Oh, sickly grief,
Thou art raw in thy coming without cease,
Thou see'st my lonely heart drop as a leaf,
Torn and broken, there seemeth no release.
Oh sore! Oh sore! A cavern in my chest!
Why God take this my friend of all the rest?