Sonnet 50

How heavy do I journey on the way,

When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,

Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,

‘Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.’

The beast that bears me, tirèd with my woe,

Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,

As if by some instinct the wretch did know

His rider loved not speed being made from thee.

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on

That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,

Which heavily he answers with a groan

More sharp to me than spurring to his side:

For that same groan doth put this in my mind:

My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

How heavy my heart is, how tedious the journey,

Even though the way I go tells me

To be encouraged: that every step in front of me

Is one step closer to resting that I’ll be.

The horse that carries me, tired and sorry as I am,

Hits the earth deep, every step, with the weight of me,

As if by some instinct she also wanted to claim

Her share of the grief, her part in the hopeless plea,

And knew how little, how little, I care for speed.

Angry and frustrated, I might whip her sometimes to gallop,

But she knows, and she winces, and in no way takes the lead,

And it pierces me worse to see her battered hope.

For every step I get farther from you

Is a moment of joy I have lost with you.