Sonnet 177

It is sweet pleasure here to pen your fame,
That others, of your worth, may ever know,
Yet to such privilege, words seem so inane
For how to capture that from which they grow?
Still write I must, with this poor peasant pen,
Of riches greater than most eyes have seen;
Of beauty that may not be seen again,
Of that which is, but never yet has been.
What honor great to have but held your hand;
What wondrous state to love a heart so true;
Such wealth bestowed, I stand a humble man,
Pure blessed with fortune that ordains the few.
My sole regret is but one life to live,
With beauty such, whose heart does ever give.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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