Sonnet 44

Black lines! Trite stirrings of a hapless muse
Do yet attempt to call in abject rhyme
A fitting tribute, as if Orpheus
Himself had writ them in some ancient time;
But no, mean verse moves not the savage heart
Nor sways the will of dread Persephone;
Yet as a lover I must play my part
And plead my case ‘gainst cosmic enmity.
These words by mortal hand were sadly writ
And clearly thus no godly graces claim-
Yet Gods and Graces may themselves commit
To verse and rhyme that sing sweet loves’ refrain;
But if these words can you, my love, entrance-
What care I then if rocks and trees can dance?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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