On August 24, 2012 I posted this sonnet in response to a Pat Lewis challenge that he called “Parroties.” I rediscovered it during my filing binge.
That Kind of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold
From William Shakespeare to his editor
David L. Harrison
Long I slaved oe’r words you now behold,
Where participles dangled, none doth hang,
Set upon each line with pen made bold
By promises I thought your letter sang;
In me thou see’st an earnest bard laid low
As I behold through grief-rimmed eyes your note
As from a deathbed room perfumed by woe,
Thou didn’st care for any word I wrote;
In me thou see’st the glowing of desire,
Though on the ashes of defeat I lie,
That on the morrow, purified by ire,
I’ll rise, consumed by that which makes me try
To pen what thou perceiv’st as sweet and strong
Which you’ll love well and beg from me ere long.
I hope you don’t mind seeing it again.