Sweet April of my youth is now with thee|
Mine ink was almost dry; as per my muse—
Each words were getting fewer cannot be.
(When phrases have their moments of abus'd)
Alack! How she hath wish’d that I am young:
‘Cause I’m much older by a distant wit,
Forsooth their mockeries they us’d to hung—
Around my head; however I won’t quit.
Erewhile thou lov’st my sonnet though ‘tis old
Where spleen and joy were written with their names?
As for mine age: her loyalty was bold,
And there’s no sadness ‘ven the autumn came.
‘Tis nigh the end of what hath been the last—
Alliance with my muse; enclos’d its past.
(c) Veronica Gray 2019
© 2019 amberdusk
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