A blast of wind

It has been so blustery here, Storm Abigail, the tail end of Hurricane Kate, Storm Barney, I couldn’t resist sharing this sonnet by Barnabe Barnes. He’s not as famous as many of his contemporary sonnet writers, who was actually the son of the Bishop of Durham, born probably in 1569 and dying forty years later.

A blast of wind, a momentary breath,
A wat’ry bubble symbolized with air,
A sun-blown rose, but for a season fair,
A ghostly glance, a skeleton of death;
A morning dew, pearling the grass beneath,
Whose moisture sun’s appearance doth impair;
A lightning glimpse, a muse of thought and care,
A planet’s shot, a shade which followeth,
A voice which vanisheth so soon as heard,
The thriftless heir of time, a rolling wave,
A show, no more in action than regard,
A mass of dust, world’s momentary slave,
Is man, in state of our old Adam made,
Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.