Sonnet LXIX. The leafless branches of the lifeless boughs

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

THE LEAFLESS branches of the lifeless boughs,

Carve Winter’s outrage in their withered barks:

The withered wrinkles in my careful brows,

Figure from whence they drew those crooked marks!

Down from the Thracian mountains, oaks of might

And lofty firs, into the valley fall:

Sure sign where BOREAS hath usurped his right;

And that, long there, no Sylvans dally shall.

Fields, with prodigious inundations drowned;

For NEPTUNE’s rage, with AMPHITRITE weep.

My looks and Passions likewise shew my wound;

And how some fair regard did strike it deep.

These branches, blasted trees, and fields so wat’red;

For wrinkles, sighs, and tears, foreshew thine hatred!