Sonnet number 3

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O why does love so often dwell in verse?

And why do you, my ghostly muse, remain?

Why does your haunting presence grow but worse?

Why does the thought of you remain as pain?

O a cold wind blows your favorite season,

Bringing frost to turf and hues to trees,

While the pain grows starker without reason,

Turning dark the eyes I eyed in memories.

Ah, now I see an answer to my thought:

Some solemn words that frigid pain inflict,

Which are not of love or emotion sought,

But in a hurtful way do make me sick:

"That distanced so with earth and time,

I'll ne'er see thee again but in my rhyme."

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