Cento Poem

I hope, I fear, resolved, and yet I doubt,
I’m cold as ice, and yet I burn as fire;
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: I kill
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
Whilst I embraced the shadow of my death,
Sleep, and his twin-born Death, entwined, embraced;
Mingling soft breath, deep dreams, dark poppied hair;
Lips pressed to lips, and hands in hands enlaced,
This life is full of numbness and of balk,
Of haltingness and baffled shortcoming,
Of promise unfulfilled, of everything,
I wot not what, and yet much I desire,
Great accomplisment seems imperfect,
Yet it does not outlive its usefulness.

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