THE SONNET

                  There is a kind of magic in this form,
                  Which Shakespeare had adopted early on,
                  That causes unconsidered thoughts to swarm,
                   A practice that served well sweet Avon’s Swan.
                  Though unlike him I’ll never graduate
                  To greater enterprises or write plays,
                  I’ll be well satisfied just to create
                  A book of little songs worthy of praise.
                  Yet even if they don’t achieve acclaim,
                  My daily musing is no waste of time,
                  For, at the least, it is a kind of game,
                  A stimulating quest for the right rhyme,
                      Which if well done, then goes on my web page
                      A place less lustrous that the Bard’s Globe stage.

*