Wish, not I, to dedicate a sonnet

To surreptitious love, brutish sorrow,

To beauty and allure wrapped in bonnet Or the woebegone hopes of the 'morrow.  See, not I, hope of evanescent love  When we hold the universe in our souls And stand higher than the heavens above While we-us-as ourselves make us a whole  Say, not I, that fidelity hinders The ripple from scintilla to the flame Yet, does not ignite the burning cinders When strength is forsaken for cupid's name.  Fear, not I, of devotion altering  A strength, of which, is never faltering.