A sonnet which I wrote for the library's open-mic next week. I have no ear for iambic pentameter, so I'm just going to hope that I got that right.
Books! What glorious pages which do tell
Of all that past which History has writ,
Of Wisdom which all Glory does extell;
Tis these pages which have all progress knit
Like ancient Fates, weaving Life on their loom,
Save only this: A life's thread has an end -
And these bound papers shall not know that Gloom
Til the March of Life itself has ended.
When Rose is called not “Rose,” 'tis still a Rose;
Tis naught but Shades, but does it not ring true?
In Lion's name are sworn all demon's foes -
How know you this? Why, you have read it through.
What you're thinking, all too well I do know;
But if they change not, what good do Quotes show?
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