Monday, October 16, 2017

A Sonnet

Like a ram's horn that blasts a battle cry,
Or hawk's fell cry before her prey she snares,
So my words whirling on the wind do fly,
And raise a din as far as rocket's flare.
Not war, nor hunt of martial nature signs,
My voice's meaning more of love partakes,
Of all of nature's fit and fair designs,
I praise the image formed without mistakes.
Thy form no jewels' shimmer can outshine,
Thy loveliness surpasses ev'ry grace,
Though sun and stars their countenance combine,
They'd pale before the splendor of thy face.
          These words I blast to heaven's highest bend,
          None touches thee unless thou wilt descend.

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