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Come Soft, the Light of This, a Noonday Sun
One day, as an assignment, one of my college professors assigned us a peculiar assignments: to write a Shakesperian or Petrarchan sonnet. So, I gave it a whirl, and after MANY unsuccessful attempts (many of which have turned into much better non-formed poems), this particular peice came up...not one of my best, but a definite achievement: An almost pure Petrarchan sonnet, with only two beat deviations.
Come Soft, the Light of This, a Noonday Sun
Come soft, the light of this, a noonday sun
Bewitches light, and casts it on my face,
Bringing warmth that love cannot replace --
But never bringing love like that of one
Who loved the helpless soldier -- who's not won
The battles for the one who gave him lace.
She breaths words that cannot ever replace
The pain of wounds that ne'er shall be undone.
She feels not pain -- but rather feels delight
To see this ragged soldier in his doom
Come to her arms, the bliss of Ignorance
Blinds my eyes, to never see my plight --
Neglecting sun and warmth, I seek the tomb
And hope within her arms for one last chance.
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(c) Copyright 1997 Joshua Smith. All Rights Reserved.
The contents of this page are the original works of Joshua David Smith, and cannot be reproduced without the permission of the author. Any unlawful reproduction will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.