A sonnet

Shall I again invoke thee as my muse?
When I, of thee, did take my leave to write,
Thou put'st alien pen before me to use.
And did give these dark and blinded eyes sight,
To see that which was there but was obscur'd.
Thou did'st lift the veil from mine eyes and mind,
And I from a long, dark slumber was stirr'd.
Thou tak'st my hand and helped my way to find.
Thou giv'st me thine own hand that I might feel,
That I also might feel the world as you,
That I might know what is false and what real.
And I have come to know life as you do.
Thou hast given life meaning and reason,
And purpose to see it through each season.