I cannot write a decent sonnet yet
though my desires creep onto the page
to make furtive love poetry; the stage
upon which I recite is dirty, and ill-set.
No rhymes obey my commands. I write
my every desire into screaming doggerel,
hoping that in poetry I can tell
my love in justice. But my words are trite.
The songs are out of measure, my voice off-pitch,
the lyric muse that courts me shakes her head -
in vain did she inspire my pen, and grace my bed,
'twas vanity to summon her, I! a silly witch!
Beloved, I cannot express what burns in me -
as long as this fever chokes my heart, I am not free.