Thoughts in the style of Pope
Sonnet #16
thoughts in the style of pope
i know how little can be known
i see all others’ faults and feel my own;
my own strange purpose to find
or make an enemy of mankind?
why is the external for that internal given?
am i not a God and earth my only heaven?
i, a virtuous son, am ill at ease
the lustful “Father” gave me a dire disease.
distracted by what others feel, what others think,
all pleasures sicken, all triumphs sink;
my right too rigid hardens into wrong
for the strong too weak, for the weak too strong.
all forms that die, other forms supply,
so i can catch that final breath, and die.
poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
Added by Poetry Lover
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