The fates have not blessed me with clear skies and fair seas, And my mind’s no sweet perfumed breeze. These silent walls restrain a dark destructive tide That my feeble forces cannot withhold inside. I would lie if I claimed that I wished no one ill: An unrighteous anger still burns against my will, For each imagined slight or even well-meant word Feeds that livid self-regard, again the fire is stirred. Can it be extinguished in a contrite ocean? Would some deity master all my foolish notions? Yet if you read these words, you honour me, my friend, With a forgiving grace upon which I depend.