Author Information
#21
Folder:
Sonnets It’s nonsense that the seasons are our days;
Each day can seasons be in roiling times.
Say not, too, that the summer’s sunny rays
Don’t burn or blister in uncustomed climes.
As for that moderate beauty you describe,
methinks its moderation is unknown;
is't moderated by some blemish, diatribe
or cruellness that, without, would be full-blown?
In poetry are words without effect
betimes, and only preconceived
can their complexed descriptions be direct
and with no complications be received.
Take analogues and similes with care
lest your interpretations yield despair.
