Sonnet Cycle To M C After William Shakespeare Sonnets Lxxxi - C

[c] Jonathan Robin

Sang to M.C. Sonnet Cycle after William Shakespeare: Sonnets Sonnets LXXXI - C


Sonnet Cycle after William Shakespeare:

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXI

Or shall I live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live, - such virtue hath my pen, -
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

Sonnet LXXXI
Surviving, shall I your oration make,
And should you live, I earthed, ungrieved, berth rotten ?
New roses bloom, new names old claims forsake,
Gladness tomorrow leaves today forgotten.
Tide here upon this sonnet's steed to wake
On lyre ecstatic harmony's true tone -
Monument in verse Time’s thirst should slake -
Awry its seat upon a nether throne.
Magnificent, eternally this verse
All future generations may inspire,
Unborn today, tomorrow shall rehearse,
Delightful name whose flame’s olympic fire.
Example setting - souls soar, bodies sleep -
Climates may change, yet to all lips you’ll leap.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXI

Or shall I live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongs to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live, - such virtue hath my pen, -
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

Should you survive, my epitaph to make,
And, living, edit print from me withheld,
Note there: no sentiments were counterfeit,
Grieve though too few explicitly were spelled.
Travelling a spell through life before the sods
One fell beneath her spell, would counter fate!
Mixed doub[t]les[s] soon beneath the cold clay clods,
A hand seeks hand to clasp, knocks at her gate.
Meditate these words, whose depth increases,
Ask I too much? Reach out, touch, as my pain,
Unheard, craves notice, not ice, grave releases
Desires, takes all, stakes lost when light waves wane.
Extended stay’s impossible, all pines,
Cannot survive, except through these few lines.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXII

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp to the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathised
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better us'd
When cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.


Since she was never married to my Muse
And thus I poet’s licence may dispense,
No dedication seems unjust, - incense
Gains not from sot expedients writers use.
Tint hinted mint, her worth, none may refuse,
One shade, one serenade, both excellence,
Mother Nature laughs at art's expense -
Ambitions grey when she's the Way all choose.
Make known this truth: all other praise Truth rues
As surf flotsam, foam froth, evanescence,
Utter mirage, opal iridescence
Derives from her, whose talents none confuse.
Elsewhere all long to lily gild as fair,
Cabuchon ruby envies blush so rare.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXIII

I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set,
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extent, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Then both your poets can in praise devise.

Strange as it sounds, I felt she'd never need
A portrait drawn, since, fair beyond compare,
Naught could draw what must aught else exceed, -
Gifts so flawless mock the poet's [fl]air.
To write her light would make tomorrow mock
One such delight on Earth could ever bloom -
Meagre my worth which never could unlock
A tithe of talents bright ease free assumes.
Modest and mute, scribe silence must maintain
As few would e’er believe her glory’s tale,
Useless and sinful praise; I’ll dumb remain,
Decline to pen comparison too pale.
Exceptional she shines, such priceless eyes
Could neither painter, poet e’er devise.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXIV

Who is it that says most ? which can say more
Than this rich praise, - that you alone are you!
In whose confine immurèd is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admirèd everywhere.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


Speech serves no turn, what may give pleasure more
Approaching treasure as her measure true?
None on fair Earth dare share rare worth she’d store
Glib prose, word bound, shows superficial glue.
Too slight this writer who’d veracious dwell
Only drawing in projected glory -
Mastered, captivated by bright spell,
Approaching tiptoe inner beauty's story.
Unequalled elsewhere, Nature's imprint writ
Dignity discovers, peerless style
Example copyright none imitate one bit -
Class of her own all envy all beguile.
Maybe such beauty seeking further praise
Curse proves through need for more to further raise.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXV

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments on your praise, richly compiled
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts, while others write good words,
And, like unlettered clerk, still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polished form of well refinèd pen.
Hearing you praised, I say, 'Tis so, 'tis true, '
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb-thoughts, speaking in effect.

Sonnet LXXXV

Speech silver’s held where silence gold is found,
And it were better had I held my tongue,
None will believe these lines, judge praise unsound,
Grate will at their ungrateful fate unsung.
This recapitulation serves no turn,
Offering reflections of her reign -
Marvel’s tale few trust, too many spurn -
And mute refrain's preferred to [c]rude refrain.
My praise seems only superficial art
Added to others’ verbiage, afterthought
Unrepresentative of loving heart.
Dumb should I stay, not paint unfinished part.
Eulogy? Vain understatement weak,
Claims others make sound lame, I’ll silent speak.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVI

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too gracious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew ?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.
He, not that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast,
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter; - that enfeebled mine.


Seductive peacock, once I played at verse
Attempting to abscond with priceless prize,
Need[l]ing to pitch or [p]itching to rehearse?
Ga[s]ping at hopes rejected, cut to size.
Topsy-turvy turn these soldier signs,
Overall weakness blocks creation's cog,
Murky blunder grey fear countersigns
As twelve score sonnets printing presses clog.
Most maids are mortal, seem simple to depict,
A line, no foot noteworthy second glance,
Unique you stand, eternal, heaven picked,
Derived from beauty’s egg, split-second chance.
Except your peerless sentiments sublime
Challenging Time, none else is worth a dime.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVII

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ?
And for that riches where is my deserving ?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.


So leave! Farewell! You are, for my possessing,
Alas too dear, and know your estimate!
Nor should my spirit so unprepossessing
Gain admittance as soul’s karmic mate.
Too rich your state, too rich for my deserving,
Only one grace could offer worth I'm wanting,
My licence patently through you is swerving,
As if you'd care for honours others granting!
Munificent, self underestimating,
A gift you gave to me, - your peerless worth,
Unless mistaking or anticipating
Different knight? – gift verse returns to berth.
Each night I share with you, - how dreams may flatter!
Come dawn I mourn, - on waking you’re dreams’ matter!

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVIII

When thou shall be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, thou thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted;
That thou in losing me shall win much glory.
And I by this shall be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I do belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.


Should she these rag sheets mock, set all to light,
And blanket merit in a bed of scorn,
Numb, all at sea, against myself I'd fight,
Great duty owing one, leave both forsworn.
Towards my inner faults I'm well acquainted,
On losing me, the more chance for her glory, -
Mistakes can’t be denied, I'm sad attainted.
Attracted still as line in link inked story
My words win/win with double purpose serve
At once the reader and my reputation,
Unreeling rhymes which never from her swerve,
Double delight all feel, past computation.
Empires may fall, worship won’t change one whit,
Claims rich this sonnet sequence waft weave writ.

Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXIX

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desirèd change,
As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;
Be absent from my walks; and in my tongue
Thy sweet belovèd name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself, I'll vow debate,
For must I ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.


Speak forth, am I forsaken for some fault,
Alas I’d not deny that deep offence:
Name just just arguments, post haste I'll halt,
Gladly dispensing with all vain defence.
The charges press, my glass admits disgrace,
One life would end with timely 'fare thee well'
Meekly I'd treat that act not out of place -
As who'd survive where there’s no love to spell.
May one sweet name be absent from my thought,
Absent then offense upon printed page,
Unequal to the task my pride is caught
Describing beauty mortal minds can’t gauge
Evidence: shared hopes walls penetrate,
Contradict one-sided stirs, sixth sense debate.

Shakespeare Sonnet XC

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not dropp in for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty spites have done their spite,
But in the onset come; so I shall taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might:
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

Sonnet XC

Soundly most dream when midnight’s heard to strike,
Asleep snores Chelles' so diverse population,
Now let me know if ‘love’ can grow from ‘like’
Gain shared, or spare us both profound frustration.
Torture me not in spinning out dark sorrow
Over and above hard circumstances,
Make not from grey today more dark tomorrow
A’treading on the heals of broken chances.
Might conscience spur to spurn me, don’t delay,
Awaiting false excuse or petty fight,
Unhesitating, cut your knight from day
Do swift your worst, electrocute me quite!
Each other plague or ague would then seem light
Compared to losing you – eternal blight!

Shakespeare Sonnet XCI

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their worth, some in their bod'ly force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour has its adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

Sonnet XCI

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
And some in wealth, some in their body's force,
Nor can some sots ignore rich raiments, still
Gad others tuned to sporting, hounds or horse.
Thus every leisure’s value added pleasure
Opens on joys presumed above the rest -
Minor matters I reject, my treasure
Always resides in what I measure best.
Most certainly your love’s worth more than status,
Above hawk, horse, and hounds, more priceless still,
Undimmed, beyond gems, knowing no hiatus
Dearer than dress, richer than Croesus’ fill,
E’er losing you must me most wretched make -
Creating joy, then terming it mistake!

Shakespeare Sonnet XCII

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assurèd mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessèd-fair that fears no blot ?
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not.

Sonnet XCII

Steal not away, coeval is one life
And mine entwined, for should it dare deceive
No longer could I face this vale of strife,
Gravewards I would sink, in silence leave.
Together sharing, life would never end,
One theme, one gleam, one scheme, to dream life long.
Mother Nature is surpassed, I'd bend
Always to one whose spirit, soul, wax strong,
Might your mind change, range right from black to white,
Alterations cannot inconstant seem,
Unless you live my life’s seems worthless blight,
Death happiness if loveless each day’s dream.
Excused, excised are faults, I see them not,
Can anything shine shadow free, sans blot

Shakespeare Sonnet XCIII

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceivèd husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though altered new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know the change.
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

Sonnet XCIII

Shall I stay sane if two apart should strain
And still survive deprived of lovelight's sh[r]ine ?
No! far from grapevine twine, stained wine’s tart brine,
Gone, set warm sun, life's turns to a[c]rid bane.
The heart sees through all counterfeits the brain
Offers to ape affections - pantomime
Manifest, unblessed, not worth a dime.
As heartburn spurns nor pain nor counterpane.
Munificent, the heavens have decreed
A beauty peerless, outside all compare,
Unknown before, in future just as rare,
Defying Time in sweetness all need read.
Enchantment would to disappointment change
Could outer show ring false with inner range.

Shakespeare Sonnet XCIV

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Sonnet XCIV

Such as have strength to hurt and yet forbear
Abeyant hold rash judgements rushed fools show
Nincompoops unmoved, few faults repair.
Great restraint is shown responding slow
Thus who’d woo grace two-timing count expense.
On inner meanings dwell, let virtue sow,
Maintaining stewardship of excellence,
As summer sent perpetuates scent’s flow
Mid-summer blossom lends sweet summer grace
Although per se it reels life’s cycle out
Unless infection checks pure petal face:
Dignity dethroned by weed’s vulgar rout.
Evil acts sour sweetness, rank smells rank
Compromised by deeds no virtues bank.

Shakespeare Sonnet XCV

For sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of the budding name!
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O! what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil does cover every blot
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see ?
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife, ill-used, doth lose its edge.

Sonnet XCV

Shame turns to bliss, claims blame's remiss when through
A miss addressed as mistress of true mind.
No spots may blot or blight, new light may find
God given joys which to, through, old accrue.
True empathy, rapport, osmosis new,
Old apple-carts upset, prepare fresh start.
Most numb I’m now, cowed by the miles apart
Awaiting signals strong, sails set, skies blue,
Mansion proud, if rented out to vice,
Abrogates all superficial glory,
Underlying lies are in a trice
Discovered, compromising beauty’s story.
Even the keenest blade, misused, turns blunt.
Conduct perfect never stoops to stunt.

Shakespeare Sonnet XCVI

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:
Thou mak'st faults graces that to the resort.
As on the finger of a thronèd queen
The basest jewel will be well esteemed,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deemed.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

Sonnet XCVI
Some say your fault is youth and wantonness
And some grant grace is youth and gentle sport: -
Now both grace, faults, are loved, much more than less
Gauge, even in your faults, fair grace is caught.
The gemstone on the finger of a queen
Only praise attracts, however small,
Methinks mistakes and errors that are seen
Are truth disguised as truth before the fall.
Many unsuspecting souls wolf would
Assassinate were camouflage complete,
Use ill your strengths, same consequences could
Defeat men’s wills confounded by deceit.
Ends, means united, each from each love gain,
Create rebirth, mirth doubled yet again.

Shakespeare Sonnet XCVII

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lord’s decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope or orphans and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

Sonnet XCVII

So like drear winter has dark distance been,
Alas each day too fast, too slowly fades,
Now hot in head, now cold in feet, hope’s shades
Grieve on leaves fallen, fled seem pastures green.
That said, sharp separation spawned sweet verse
Overcoming early frost – the fruit
Matured in rhyme thanks Time for lyric lute,
Abundant issue many may rehearse.
More should one add, for orphan Hope appears
All seasons’ joys depend upon one smile,
Unseen all wilts, night falls, spreads silent tears,
Deals Hope harsh blow, flow freezes for a while,
E’en should it sing, sense rings with dull rebound,
Confused ‘til cypher sounds soul’s signals sound.

Shakespeare Sonnet XCVII

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lord’s decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope or orphans and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

So like harsh winter has her absence been,
And every day that passes by forsakes
Narcissistic hopes inflated, flakes
Grudge from dark depths stark ancient echoes mean.
Thus read how world I'd win were she its Queen.
Overcoming mischief or mistakes,
Mingling close together till each wakes
Auras twinned in Summer dreams serene.
Methinks when giving, sharing’s constant seen
Affinity as empathy awakes
Unrewarded echo breath intakes,
Dissolve therefore all artificial screens.
Everywhere pique’s meek, hope scales fresh peaks,
Comforts momentum, night, day, truth may speak.

Shakespeare Sonnet XCVIII

From you I have been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.


Saturn laughs through karmic rings remet,
April taps green Spring, sun saps Winter keen.
No birdsong, lily white, might meeting set -
Gainsay as hearts souls sway, eyes dance joy’s mien.
Today Jack Frost insists on hedging bet,
Overwhelmed as rosebuds ready are seen -
Magma flames encased in sepal yet -
As Nature’s pattern lightly steps on scene.
Motivated by blanch lily’s whiteness
And ruby rose’s blush which praise deserves,
Unstable they, pale echoes, impreciseness,
Delightful imitations Nature serves -
Ersatz Spring – your absence compensating.
Charm’s shadow shapes play games oh so frustrating!

Shakespeare Sonnet XCIX

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair,
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

Sonnet XCIX

'Sweet thief whence did you steal scent which sweet smells? '
Asked Violet of Rose with gentle chide,
'No theft occurred! ' an anxious Rose replied: -
'Gift lift Love lent, which happiness foretells! '
Taking to task, Violet to Rose explains
Openly the falseness of its pride, -
'May love henceforth all outer walls deride,
And perfume both Spring breezes, Autumn rains.
Marjoram and Lily, for their pains
Aspects of one beauty represent,
Unfinished symphonies, existence lent
Not through themselves - for Nature’s held in chains.
Every blossom beauty’s tribute pays
Countless times, Maude’s echoes rhyme relays.

Shakespeare Sonnet C

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light ?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despisèd every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crookèd knife.

Sonnet C
So where did you slip off forgetful Muse,
Allowing time to pass without inventing
New songs to praise, new phrases to amuse
Giving tongue ? Whence comes this dumb relenting ?
Turn to new ground, Muse found, forthwith repent
On time so idly spent, whence comes this dream?
May pen on paper pl[a]y rise in esteem,
Arise adopting Amor's argument?
Most ridiculous, its zigzag whirr
Awry, in times gone by, went wayward track
Unknown are wrinkles Time should lay on her,
Dawn notices no ice in tress survey.
Eternity’s Love’s aim, famed flames frame life,
Cancels Time’s sickle, blunts Death’s vicious knife.

by Jonathan ROBIN

Comments (10)

This shows real craft, Scarlett. The structure is excellent, juxtaposing light against darkness but not in that boring, conventional way. instead you invert them- light isn't all it is cracked up to be, you long for the darkness. We were happy here In the darkness. We used it As a blanket To wrap around us, To cover us From the sight Of our souls, But with the sun, I'll be gone. Darkness enables us to hide, to love, to get away from who we are. The sun is harsh, it exposes those things, burns them way. That line 'But with the sun I'll be gone' is magnificent- I hear sirens there- the sounds of summer. But you don't celebrate being gone, you resent it. Such a clever and thought provoking peice- the metre is spot on and the phrasing precise and considered. Wonderful.
Ah yes, the ole underappreciation factor rears its ugly countenance once again...go figure? That deadbeat will likely never see the light of day, I'm afraid, so you are quite right in buggering off, Linda.; -)
I detect a familiar pattern here. One of regret and melancholy. I like the pattern of the poem and the metaphor of the mist that hides the soul. Warmly, Alison
Sometimes I look out for a piece that expresses how I feel at that moment. For times past, this is sure one. And it's fabulous.
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