Sonnet II

An Original Poem

The Land of Cockaigne by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1567

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Were the glass abrim with honey's sweet reprieve, 

My soul, what worth in drinking could there be? -

The pleasure be but soon a chance to leave

This empty life of sick'ning pleasantry:


The brain would take its honeyed fill, and flee

The living course thine heroes longed to wear - 

A bitter thresh of faith and piety,

Made sweet withal one moment of despair.


For little more doth make a soul to care

Than hope afall'n for some forsaken band,

Or looking into blackness for a pray'r

That looks thee back and offers not a hand.


So naught's to fear in blessed sorrow's keeping:

Bitter draughts will break thy soul of sleeping.

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Sincerely,

E.K.