Sonnet 11/7

To whom must I be faithful, so considered, 

The vigil of my grief by Air, so wintered? 

What promise can I make to men of flesh, 

When brethren see, at best, a brother's past? 

Nothing, then, shall hear my promise, true

Of constancy, when, storms announce, "Adieu."

The star which wishes on my unsaid vow, 

Shall witness edges crease my tender brow. 

To naught, I say, will I unravel forth, 

Stoking unseen blazes heart-within,

Announcing random whims that backward doth

Reflect some prom'sing creature I had been. 

For all those glitt'ry thoughts that Time revoked, 

The solid flames of blind faith be provoked.