blowing our sparks of virtue

My melancholic murmured sin
for fabled wondrous worlds I knew
(though only reverie within,
thus I all else do now eschew)

hath hanged my self within mine own
dilapidated, dolorous
subterrane which birthed this groan
I've found to be euphonious.

For if 'twere not of public held
as even such cacophony,
much less a garbled song expelled
from lesser lungs than mutes could free,

what choice have I but to delight
in feignéd beauty, all of mine,
which shall remain as if I night
and it the shadow ceding shine?

Yet still detest I self no less
than all of beauty do proclaim
and in my choiceless choice regress
to ancient ways under new name

that I might lie and say 'tis not
a grievance, though derision's known,
but such a wonder and my lot
to be dark through which light is shown.