In my poems

Sonnet 21

If I was to speak of your eyes, which are exquisite,
I’d remarked be as a pagan, for it would not go well
To admit your gaze makes me pay heaven a sweet visit
Or that by the Gardens of Eden they make me dwell
If I was to speak of your lips, in a hundred years’ time
This poem would be ridiculed once it’s past its age
For they would believe it to be an invention of mine
That your sweet lips make spring’s red roses rage
Nor the sun rays nor the moon beam can convey
How beautiful you are, more than anything on earth
And even though they’d not believe every word I say
Every poem I write, to describe your beauty, is dearth
I will write for years, and Death will never take your life away
Because by verses you will live, and in my poems you will stay





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