Thy pale death, O Day, enchants me not.
Thine ending glow, thy downfall casts no shade
Of deepest black against thy glow. Uncaught
My breath, unstirred my heart. I bade,
I wished, I wanted naught but breathless joy.
Cold is thy heart to mock me with such lack
And falling in such pallor to annoy,
To taunt and to be brash behind my back.
Thou art, O Sunset, longing of my heart,
To bring this day to end which I have loathed.
Glorious fire, hues of gold impart!
But why dost thou remain thus poorly clothed?
You see my longing, mourning end with day--
And still you will not end with gold, but gray.
postscript
Written to warm up for [link] 's fortnight-long February Sonnet Challenge. Sign up! We're gonna write 14 sonnets in the first two weeks of February--all different kinds. This one is Shakespearean.