Sonnet Clxxxiii:

I know that every note and chord of woe Sob in these lines; and you who have not borne My woeful heart, may turn with natural scorn From what you look on as a wordy show. What is there, say you, in his fate to know, That makes this mourner's history more forlorn Than his who perished, gashed and bullet-torn Just as the southern rose began to blow? I do not ask you to divide my care; Smile at the cross upon my mural stone; Its dreadful record is for me alone. But do not trespass. In God's name beware Lest prying fingers lay my secrets bare; For there is that which never should be known.