The start of any sonnet just occurs
Spontaneously arising in the mind,
But then the work begins of making verse
And finding words that rhyme with those behind
While all along contriving fluency
By smoothing out the numbers as they flow,
A labor that progresses tediously,
Though yet such sweat and effort must not show.
A well-made sonnet seems inevitable
As if it sprang full grown from the head
In god-like glory, grand, a spectacle—
Only the poet knows how much he bled.
For all of that, it’s still a mystery
How any decent sonnet comes to be.