Sonnet 17
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Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were fill\\u2019d with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, \\u201cThis poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne\\u2019er touch\\u2019d earthly faces.\\u201d
So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be scorn\\u2019d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term\\u2019d a poet\\u2019s rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0 But were some child of yours alive that time,
\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0 You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
Waltz to a Wood Thrush by Kathleen Martin is licensed under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
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