Sonnet I

Poetry sings in all men in this world,
Like wine flowing through a stream sublime,
Showing us a world from another time,
Unfettered, weathered wings of dreams unfurled;
Indulgence in our passion is not a crime
To yield to love is worth no King’s dime,
To cover one’s soul is akin to a worm curled
Neath showers that strike the ground with force
For the burrows in which we work and toil
Give us neither the freedom of joy nor splendour,
But only makes our poetry, our souls coarse
And our countenance in bland stews boil –
Love is but just music in a harbour,
The fruit of life’s triumphs and remorse.