Yo.  Or, what am I supposed to put here, again?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXX)


O!  I could swear May yawns at me from hence,
Now that snow's curse is gone, as if the tale
Of slaughtered yards 'non waking to th'all hail
As twere of sweet Favon'us are but thence
Slain in that heat dear Shakespeare knew fr'intents,
Likeas to murmur that the violets pale
Ere I've had chance to finger them t'avail,
And laughs now in my face like hope's pretense.
Where are the dandelions nodding through
That oven breath if such things are so true?
Why do the windows fog up still in tour
Before the day is old?  And wherefore, fer
All that, is evry bough yet naked?  Poor
As blue skies' teases, I'm mixt up now too.

16Mar19b