A Shakespearean Sonnet Poem

Sonnet 130

(a) My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

(b) Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

(a) If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

(b) If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

(c) I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

(d) But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

(c) And in some perfumes is there more delight

(d) There in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

(e) I love to hear her speak; yet well I know

(e) I love to hear her speak; yet well I know

(f) That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

(e) I grant I never saw a goddess go;

(f) My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground

(g) Any yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

(g) As any she belied with false compare

On His Blindnessby John Milton(1608-1674)

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, least he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts, who best

Bar his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines

And keep him there; and let him thence escape

If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape

Flood, fire, and demon--his adroit designs

Will strain to nothing in the strict confines

Of this sweet Order, where, in pious rape,

I hold his essence and amorphous shape,

Till he with Order mingles and combines.

Past are the hours, the years, or our duress,

His arrogance, our awful servitude:

I have him. He is nothing more than less

Than something simple not yet understood; Last understood;

I shall not even force him to confess;

Or answer. I will only make him I will put titlegoodSpen**

Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare

Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,

In which if ever ye entrapped are,

Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.

Folly it were for any being free,

To covet fetters, though they golden be.

Spenserian abab-bcbc-cdcd-ee rhyme scheme.

From Amoretti

Edmund Spenser (c. 1552-1599)

What guile is this, that those her golden tr esses

She doth attire under a net of gold;

And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,

That which is gold or hair, may scarce be to ld?

Is it that men’s frail eyes, which gaze too bold,

She may entangle in that golden snare;

And being caught may craftily enfold

Their weaker hearts, which are not yet well aware?

Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare

To Fanny

John Keats (1795-1821)

I cry your mercy–pity–love!–aye, love!

Merciful love that tantalizes not,

One-thoughted, never-wande ring, guileless love,

Unmasked, and being seen–without a blot!

O! let me have thee whole,–all–all–be mine!

That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest

Of love, your kiss,–those hands, those eyes divine,

That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,–

Yourself–your soul–in pity give me all.

Withhold no atom’s atom or I die,-----eng.2eng atom or I die,

Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,

Forget, in the mist of idle misery,

Life’s purposes,–the palate of my mind

Losing its gist, and my ambition blind!