Date Posted:12:29:17 04/12/01 Thu Author:William Poe Subject: This Thorn
This poem is in the form known as an "Italian sonnet," I was trying something new (I have never written, or even tried to write, an Italian sonnet before). The rhyme scheme is different from a more well-known English or Shakespearean sonnet, but the rhythm is the same. Enjoy.
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There is a pain which within me resides,
For whom I can never tell--
Be sure, it is the road to my own Hel;
'Tis the sting of Eros, as Venus chides,
No use for time, but its hour bides:
That Death visits me in peals of a bell;
Thieving Daemon wings and face of angel,
Not even grace of Life for me betides.
'Tis a kissing cousin as Joy relates;
Yet, mortal enemy in Happy's face
Which dwells in Darkness night and light of day.
'Tis the essence of Angel at Hell's gates
And bedevilled sire who wins no race--
Though i' cause me ill, ne'er could I wish away.
BRILLIANT!!!! -- Startime, 14:10:38 04/12/01 Thu