Work Text:
THE BRITISH LIBRARY
Department of Manuscripts
Accession No.1598.21.a-b
Two sonnets, late Elizabethan period (c.1590-1600). Ink on paper, folded quatro.
Item(a): Headed "Sonnet 85: For F--." Single sheet, twice-folded. Evidence of repeated handling; fold lines are deeply set and the paper is softened at the creases. Minor foxing to the lower-left margin. Ink consistent with iron gall, brown-black with age. The numeration "85" suggests a larger body of work; no additional sonnets have been recovered. Donated anonymously in 1986 with the request that it be displayed alongside item (b).
Item(b): Headed "Pour celui qui demeure dans mon cœur." [For the one who remains in my heart]. Single sheet, unfolded. The paper is in notably better condition than item (a), suggesting it was stored flat and handled infrequently. A faint impression along the top edge indicated it may have been kept pressed between the pages of a larger volume. Ink and hand are consistent with a second author. Recovered in 1952 from the debris of a private London residence destroyed during the Blitz.
The two items were accessioned separately and are believed to have been composed during the same period. Their pairing here follows the request of the anonymous donor of item (a).
Item(a): Sonnet 85: For F--
His hair’s not spun gold, despite what he’s heard,
Though sunlight strikes it vain with wanton pride.
His ocean-eyes - yes, drowning would be preferred,
If drowning dragged me nearer to his side.
He speaks, and every syllable’s a flame,
That renders all my reasons into ash.
I curse the way he mocks me - still, my name
Feels gentler when he says it in a flash
Of laughter, half sincere, half damnably coy.
O France, if I am yours it is despite,
All sense, all pride - yet still a traitor’s joy
Is mine, to dream of you by candlelight.
I loved you not by plan, nor by design -
But tell me, was I ever not near thine.
Item(b): Pour celui qui demeure dans mon cœur. [For the one who remains in my heart].
A fire hides beneath those wary green eyes -
A blaze he guards with silence, cold and grim.
Yet I have felt its spark ‘neath all his lies,
And seen the glow he swears is not for him.
He scowls as if my nearness is a crime,
Yet lingers in my orbit, feigning spite.
His words cut deep, but only to buy time -
His heart, I think, protests with too much fight.
O England, wrapped in wool and thorns and steel,
Your pride, your barbs, your walls - I love them too.
For buried in the hush you dare not feel,
There is a love as fierce as it is true.
You’d never say it, no - not in the day -
But in your sleep, you whisper please - don’t stray.