Sonnet 39

My silent pen now mocks me, this I fear,
For months have passed since passion called to write;
Yet less for lack of passion, this I swear
Then for remiss of love which is loves’ blight.
Love is a fragile flower, such is true,
That if neglected withers on the vine;
Yet if fair nurtured still may rise anew
Repaying kindly each, and each in kind.
So I, to you, with this sweet silent pen
Pay homage to love’s wondrous splendent state
And beg forgiveness; nurturing again
That steadfast pow’r that virtue contemplates.
For if mean verse can ever nurture love,
These gentle lines your stolid heart may move.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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