.
Running round ruins of things long forgot,
These tried, tiring times—who can make an end?
Can read the scroll or seven seals rend?
The limpid air is still and full of rot.
The sorry dreams of fragile souls are bought
And sold for tuppence. My unhappy friend,
What plan, what wisdom from on high intend
When passing sorrow fills us with this thought?
Our faith would be high folly but by grace—
A frightening solace and a bitter gall.
Our hope would be a psychobabel case,
For not the sign emblazed on a casket’s pall.
Our love—a splotch in black and empty space,
Unless God’s heart had pity on our fall.
.
.
T.M.A. Day is in formation for the Catholic priesthood in the Archdiocese of Indianapolis, Indiana.
Mr. Day, this is a profound and lovingly constructed Petrarchan sonnet, reminding us that addressing friends is a significant part of sonnet tradition. The irregular meter of the first two lines is extremely well suited to the question asked there. And while it may figure the thoughts of an unhappy friend, I will guess that something similar may be felt (at times) by the poet in formation for the Catholic priesthood during present adversities. May any rough moment be quickly succeeded by the calm flow of traditional meter, as in your poem. You choose the cdcdcd rhyme scheme for the sestet, to deal equally with the faith, hope, and love shared by yourself and the friend you address. The order of ideas shows that even here there is affliction and trouble. But although the final words are “our fall,” this is already overcome by the pity of God’s heart, referring back to the poem’s title, and saying, “Take Heart.” Magnificent work.
Darnit. All I have to say is ditto’s to Margaret.
But let me add that I think I caught a whiff of Ecclesiastes at the end of L2 to supplement the circularity of things.
Let me add something indirectly. A long ago IT Director, tongue in cheek, once asked me what trait was common to all technology — the only trait? He said, “It fails.” Having seen the explosion of quick-buck, go home early, half-written applications sold with almost mafia-like compulsion from legalized monopolies, if I met him today, I’d playfully (or not) rejoin, “And that it all was built by sinners.”