Sonnet 426

Here in fond hope this rhyme shall bring you fame:
No beauty from the past can rival you;
Only this hand that strives might bring you shame
Through ragged lines that he did here roughhew;
Yet whosoever writes does matter not
Save that his pen stay true to virtue named,
Nor shall a lovely gain when overwrought
For then, of question, lies all worth proclaimed.
Thus in pure truth no woman stands more blessed
By female grace in all its mortal forms,
Of this perfection, here I so address
That you not bide unto poetic norms.
Beauties of the past by gilded words be known,
But scrived in forthright lines, you stand alone.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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