Sonnet 86

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Bound for the prize of all too precious you,

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write

Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?

No, neither he, nor his compeers by night

Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence

As victors of my silence cannot boast;

I was not sick of any fear from thence.

But when your countenance fill’d up his line,

Then lack’d I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Did I stop writing because the sail

Of his great verse struck me dumb?

Did the fruit of my thoughts not prevail

But sink into earth like a tomb

Because his spirit blinded mine, immortal

More than mine, inspired by angels

More than mine? Not at all.

Night holds better jewels.

Not he nor his muses

Gave silence to my gift.

He gave me no pauses,

Set not my heart adrift.

It was when I realized who

Was in his poetry was you.