Second Sonnet for Fawn

Put down the pen that writes of love too much, Let rest the thoughts that trouble most the mind? Each day that passes hence may find its touch A fraction thinner in her ardour lined. So many weeks can flutter by and fast End up with passion dulled beyond repair. Should words be writ too oft they may not last The course, and cause her burdened heart despair. And yet, love’s curse will burn the soul to dust, Yield nought but pain if nought is said this day. Most times forgiveness shows she, true and just, If words beyond the limit fall her way: Now stands the time to tell her one wouldst choose Ev’ry day of life with her, and not to lose.