Once upon a time there was a girl who hated sonnets.
The end.
Should I compare you to anything, dear?
Would it flatter you to hear me compose?
Or would, perhaps, it too banal appear,
Seeming my love prosaic as a rose?
If I were to compare thee, however
It would be to a star or to a lark
Or, I assure you, darling, I endeavor
For perchance the last moment before dark
But all these things seem far too contrasting
To a resplendent beauty such as thee
Because these things are forever lasting
And your radiance is fleeting, you see
But compare you shall I not, my dearest
For shall you to my heart remain nearest
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2 comments:
Riveting.
Did you write that sonnet?
Yes, ma'am, I did.
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