“I gaze upon thy paled face
Soon to be entombed in somnolence divine,
O that the knobbed fingers of Death did ever embrace thy soule
And caress thy beauteous form to nature!
I cannot strew thy grave with fragrant petals,
O my love.
For thou encoffin’d and embalmed
In satin shrouds are not to me beloved”
If you’re good, I’ll give you another verse next week. Or would you prefer a couple of lines from “I breathe Byron”?
Comments
Friar Tuck
on 05 February 2005 at 17:46
That’s very, ummm, sonnetty.
poggle
on 07 February 2005 at 16:21
I especially like the ‘knobbed fingers of death’.
And ‘thy paled face’- oooh – new word!
The sentiment is wonderful – ‘I don’t love you now you’re dead’.
More, please. 