Sonnet Xv:

XV Where is my merit? By what special grace Am I so blessed above all other men? I have some fancy, and the art to pen A halting sonnet to thy perfect face. But what of that? The thrush or twittering wren Makes sweeter music from his resting-place. No outward beauty in my life I trace, No thought nor deed heroical; and when My eyes turn inward, I am stricken blind At the abyss of weakness, folly, sin, That like the miner's shaft, sinks far within My darkened nature. Nowhere can I find Cause for thy love. Rest, rest, my troubled mind! Where reason stops, let soaring faith begin. XVI