Sonnet
Many a man has found his lady fair,Comparing her to flowers that blow in May.Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dareNot set to paper words my heart would say.I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight,Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun,Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight,Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one.Such singing never lay within my power;I cannot call thee dear names others call.Only in memory from hour to hourI weave the loveliness thou lettest fallUnheeded, gathering up the twisted strandsOf a tired heart, made silken in thy hands.FRANK D. ASHBURN.
Many a man has found his lady fair,Comparing her to flowers that blow in May.Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dareNot set to paper words my heart would say.I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight,Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun,Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight,Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one.Such singing never lay within my power;I cannot call thee dear names others call.Only in memory from hour to hourI weave the loveliness thou lettest fallUnheeded, gathering up the twisted strandsOf a tired heart, made silken in thy hands.FRANK D. ASHBURN.
Many a man has found his lady fair,Comparing her to flowers that blow in May.Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dareNot set to paper words my heart would say.I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight,Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun,Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight,Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one.Such singing never lay within my power;I cannot call thee dear names others call.Only in memory from hour to hourI weave the loveliness thou lettest fallUnheeded, gathering up the twisted strandsOf a tired heart, made silken in thy hands.
Many a man has found his lady fair,
Comparing her to flowers that blow in May.
Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dare
Not set to paper words my heart would say.
I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight,
Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun,
Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight,
Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one.
Such singing never lay within my power;
I cannot call thee dear names others call.
Only in memory from hour to hour
I weave the loveliness thou lettest fall
Unheeded, gathering up the twisted strands
Of a tired heart, made silken in thy hands.
FRANK D. ASHBURN.
FRANK D. ASHBURN.