When, all insecure, before howling mountains Thrown, I make my breviary all of pleas And pull a dark choir of fears from one tone: That you forbid with "No" my devoutest "Please." 5 When begging poorly after with my poor bowl of want Some thrifty grain of your rich rice to eat, I repeat my fervent graces for that sup Until all my kneeled body a trembled flare Of stark uncertainty resembles, 10 My hopes all poured in the concentration of a cup That I might from the spices of your eye unpent Some seasoning of affection by my heat. But whether it is a matter of soul or bowl, The sum is this: from your least grows my all.
From the collection "XXX Sonnets"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.