Sonnet XI -- Constancy Over Time

I find my words are empty like my heart,
Their content and their pow'r gone long ago.
No longer can my pen perform the art
And mould my words to tell you of our woe.

An image is an easy thing to make
And yet I find this skill from me has fled:
The wounds which spill my love and cause such ache
Have rendered it beyond my feeble reach.

But how can all I write be without sense
While I can yet relate this tragic gest?
And can my love be gone?  In that case whence
Comes all the pain that keeps me from my rest?

	I find my words more potent than I thought.
	My heart is also stronger than its ought.