Sonnet 341

I pour my passion into muted ink,
In love for you which prose cannot define
And of this shorthand I may yet so link
Ethereal essence to sweet thoughts in time;
May worth thus captured ever live in verse
That years from now I might yet choose to read
And in so doing memories there return
Unto sweet gardens that my soul shall feed.
If not transcribed, what ledger may I keep?
Where recollection stands but sure to fail,
Into remembrance faulty scenes may creep,
Pure recall such by time’s corruption paled.
My ardor here so writ by loving hand
Bests grandest words inscribed upon the sand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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