Sonnet 156

How burdensome these words for me to craft
Such stringent, metered lines they flow along
Oh how I erred so numerous in draft
A myriad of inking out the wrong
In racing time, my speed is not enough
I sit here, drawn to pen, in fixèd trance
From nowhere gleams a feint of light, though rough
That dissipates the twinkling that I glance
My thoughts in hopeless need to go a way
Obstructed by my limit in Time's game
Aside my joys are shoved for this delay
To rhyme expressive verse for some acclaim
But truly my rejoice has now begun
For it is now the end and I am done