A million years ago, there was a man
Who maunched an English breakfast while his wife
Was sitting simply, contemplating life.
With spider-sitting ease, with pad and pen.
“I think” thought he, “that I would be quite dim
If I should not your beauty recognize
And in a sonnet seek immortalize.”
His wife, just then, a note displayed to him.

What Elizabeth for Robert did
I lack the expertise to do for thee
But for the simple sonnet that was slid,
I know I match her hot sincerity.
My fast from human touch has made its bid:
Though I have words, my thought will ne'er be free.