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The Perfect Sonnet


Thy blessed tongue, it trippeth o’er the phrase
that speaks too plain its mind in forward word,
and doth not twist in convoluted ways
about non sequiturs, a mocking bird.
Thine artist’s heart, it sings old songs of love;
you utter speech not heard since Shakespeare’s day,
and here, you know no better fit than dove,
and thank the stars that poets still say gay.
O! Love enduring, why should you be changed?
Why taint your breast with vulgar words and new?
Why sentence make one normally arranged
when thou must elder apricots on blue?
I prithee, let me rest within your tree
and dream of simple poets, just like me.

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