a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №155
Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. Also, I should acknowledge that the formal aspect of this “Petrarchan sonnet” is liberally conceived so it’s unnecessary to alert me that at “Petrarchan sonnet” with 17 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 5 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
HOW ALL THE world conspires to our ends the stars and planets breath together too presided by the Sun in throne of blue which watches o’er us and our work commends and to our hands his cosmic fire lends and thereby with his golden seal imbues each action we perform and all we do as emissaries that a monarch sends to execute the mandates of his will and thereby to make manifest his plan to raise the city high upon the hill while all the world’s houses built on sand will fall and crumble to the sea until our city is the only one that stands so builders clamour outwardly their skill to raise the walls and to subdue the land but God awaits a city not made with hands
