Sonnet 86:

The future gives full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to prize and grow great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. No, we see our pride flies
as it works a crowd of familiar spirits taught to write.

Once our brain ripens, we have neither victory nor fear — I by night lack a precious affable spirit beyond mortality.. both that and its ghost morality strike me all too precious matters, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling up this line.