Sonnet
Reading edition
Many a man has found his lady fair, Comparing her to flowers that blow in May. Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dare Not set to paper words my heart would say. I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight, Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun, Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight, Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one. Such singing never lay within my power; I cannot call thee dear names others call. Only in memory from hour to hour I weave the loveliness thou lettest fall Unheeded, gathering up the twisted strands Of a tired heart, made silken in thy hands. FRANK D. ASHBURN.