Sonnet, Cecília Sobral

I sometimes think to search for, in thy face
The simple charm of harmless, girlish grace
And though thou givest plenty to suffice
I know I see no lover, but a vice

And so I strain to hold these thoughts unsaid
Thus running from the life my past has led
But though I pray to act what breath intended
I see thee still and find my will suspended

And in this pause I feign, with eyes unclear
To see thy hands as mine, thy heart as dear
But shake these thoughts of arson from our mind
And hope that I pray still my will to find

For none but fruits of sorrow await thee, sown,
And thus, the dooming morrow is by us known.

Cecília Sobral