Sonnet CCLXXIV

There’s never greater disappointment than the sun,
meandering, intense and sinister, to you.
You know these curtains whisper in the night, untrue,
exalting in their strange conspiracy of fun.
The sheets are mocking you, awash with yellow dun,
untruthful flattery, so calmly clean and new.
The ceiling’s laughing: crowded frescoes flame your rue,
their stellar constellations pointed as a gun.

There’s never greater disappointment as you turn
and know you must wake up to face your world of spurn.

Go to your windowsill; uncover all the panes.
Regard the light azure with caution – gingerly!
Again you must live under it, and swim its sea,
and move and speak and laugh, and face the world’s disdain.