A Doubtful Sonnet

av Erling Røhmer.


To what does Man’s frail mind lend frantic grip –

When in the tempest of his conscience – Doubt,

In green and yellow frock lets subtly slip

A seed of hesitation fit to sprout?

Whence comes the force to oust this vagabond,

As even Reason nods in faint accord –

For what – with what – and on what grounds respond,

When it’s one’s very Will that has been gored?

Does such distress not trouble men of gold –

Are they immune – compos’d of better clay,

Did they themselves design their blameless molds?

Or, if I asked, would they not simply say:

‘Tis not self-doubt that conquers man’s resolve, But wanting pluck, he will in doubt dissolve.




Støtt Pendelen:

VIPPS # 507 114

Alt innhold er opphavsrettlig beskyttet

© 2020 Pendelen.no