Sonnet II

O Life; though some have scorned
and mourned thee cruel, for, thou ar’t not so;
For those, who think thou past them by in cruel forgetful woe,
fail to see thy tender hand laid about their head
the forgetful herb thou give after dread
to only remember days gone by
passing fancies and loves by’n’bye.
Doest thy soul a record keep for us to ‘member on?
Thou art the Poet’s mistress and the Beggar’s hope
and doest with fervor, care, and mirth reside
to suffer roads and safely travel sorrow aside
we must upon the writ of dawns passing gaze
find joy and be thankful; before thy siblings dark sword to blaze
sinks to the quick and steals us from your care.

 

{{Note: I want to connect with the poetry of days past and not relinquish the reciepe of pen and quill to the age and forgetful spell of time. I am challenging myself to write and study more of the beautiful sonnet.}}

 

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