Posted by Sara II. This happy hand, which from the page's white
on 4/5/2005, 12:35 am
216.75.184.190
Sonnets From A Green And Growing Place
And palid blank doth shape these flowing lines,
Commandeth now my pen his praise to write
Whose grasp so sure round hand and heart entwines.
'Tis not from me the numbers freely flow
With rhythm rich and careful accent-fall,
But from his touch, and from his whispers low.
His lips to mine impart the muses' call.
To him should go the living, laurel band,
For 'tis my love which sculpteth now this song,
And though this pen, this page, this very hand
Were mine, unto my love they now belong.
So let the laurels come, if come they must!
Beside my dearest one they are as dust!
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