Sonnet 84

For Time shall cease with these deft strokes of pen
And in proud ink your memory here live on;
All future eyes who read will muse again,
And marvel too, these words my gold baton;
Thus could a poet’s hand out wrestle Time,
Or in rhymed writ Times’ spoil of grace forbid,
And could a poet’s wit live on divine
And in sweet words, fair beauty’s scourge be rid.
Then this shall be your shrine forever more;
Your shield against the ravages of age;
Your proof, the grandest charge a poet bore;
Your beauty’s truth, not just a poet’s rage.
Be this the hand that made the world stand still,
And your sweet grace outlast, by poet’s will.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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