Don't Make A Sound!
Call it a world more fair?
You are what you called it,
A lovely sonnet’s day—
Tough as the winter winds they blow,
And the let is the springtime’s own—
And the aura of the Firmament’s lambency
So oftly the shine of tomorrow blends;
But any traipsing girl rationally elapses,
Like any novel to its forsaken ending,
By my eternal promise to win,
Not I, thou, just a king—
Such lets gasconade into the middle—
All to rest in the heaping climb.
So morrow’s all the wager
As far as I can bring thee.
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