Old poets, torturing their thoughts to rhyme, <br />their lovely English verse to end-words tied, <br />oft found just cause to moan of 'envious Time', <br />and seek immortal fame in 'Time defied'; <br /> <br />for rhymesters, it is ever June, when moon <br />shines on their corn; for moralists, base love <br />may find in Plato reason to attune <br />and lift their Muse to world on world above - <br /> <br />and then, there's Shakespeare: from whose boundless art <br />flows liquid gold; whose words bring heaven to earth, <br />to sing love's beauty; melt the frozen heart, <br />make men to cry with joy; gods, weep with mirth: <br /> <br />a sonnet's span can bring one to oneself; <br />in fourteen lines, bequeath us heaven's wealth.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fourteen-lines/
