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O, sonnet song, you’re sweet poetic wine,
I thirst for you, no other verse compares.
Romantic beauty weaves, like slender vine,
around and upward on angelic stairs
that rise into the heavenly abode
where harps enthrall all lovers who ascend.
O, rapture me on this celestial road.
Beloved notes please help me to transcend
where bards from yesteryear sing in my ear
their tales of love, love lost, their tales of death;
where even in their sorrow I can hear
the music flowing from their final breath.
O, sonnet, may I drink from your wellspring
to walk the realm where ancient bards still sing?
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