Brightest is the night which is made day,

When in the dark and drear I repose,

Unthinking yet thinking, as I lay,

Of beauty nature nor pen can compose.

 

Thy love, my dear, doth inspire within

Dreams no aspiring sun can shade;

Night is no night, when by wakeful whims,

Upon my mind you've images made.

 

Can my eyes be dark, when closed by night,

If you by daylight love have seared them?

Night cannot heal:  as well might day's light—

Nor do I wish such pain have an end.

 

Glad the hour when sleep creeps upon me,

But happier still will day's first glance be.

 

 

A sonnet to Margie, written in Morocco about 1970.

I'd been studying Shakespeare, and tried his style.