Sonnet 37, This Love

This love is only dead or else it's born
Into the trouble that before life lies,
I swear that mood grows allot of the awn
With delicate poison that into earth dries;
Like each of your pleasure into the draught
Between two worlds of the good and the bad,
Of what you have made and what you have brought
What gives you happiness what makes you sad.

Dance, dance, dance not in doubt from a shadow,
But in the light that will rise from your own
When your heart knows alive love from one dead;
For every thought that's given has its glow
And each word to the ground like a seed's sown:
Give not of thy stones as if they were bread.