Dream (sonnet 4)

O dream, The Sword of Damocles!
How long shall you fill past sorrows to memory
The begone dolours, of falls, of defect stumbles
Whispering to heart, the lamentable story,
And would you ever be a clown, a Jester
Bring here little moth which envy the eagle
Hasten less the field, that fears hard winter;
Neither the cry for petals be of stinging nettle,
For one ne'er help over which men has no controls
All's mystery, Death, Dream, poverty and pain
But as for me, Dream hunts, Dream cajoles
Like many hurling bolts of lightnings withno rain
Dream! Your charm's such, Wheedle me so much
not
What help renders calmness upon the sea after a
great lost.