Sonnet 108: When Sorrow
When
sorrow
(using
mine
own
fire's
might)
Melts
down
his
lead
into
my
boiling
breast;
Through
that
dark
furnace
to
my
heart
oppress'd
There
shines
a
joy
from
thee,
my
only
light;
But
soon
as
thought
of
thee
breeds
my
delight,
And
my
young
soul
flutters
to
thee
his
nest,
Most
rude
despair,
my
daily
unbidden
guest,
Clips
straight
my
wings,
straight
wraps
me
in
his
night,
And
makes
me
then
bow
down
my
head
and
say,
"Ah,
what
doth
Phoebus'
gold
that
wretch
avail
Whom
iron
doors
do
keep
from
use
of
day?"
So
strangely
(alas)
thy
works
in
me
prevail,
That
in
my
woes
for
thee
thou
art
my
joy,
And
in
my
joys
for
thee
my
only
annoy.