Dunno why, but I've wanted to write this for days...the first lines, that is.
Macbeth's wife wrung her hands, to then bewail
The blood which nary washing could fr'intents
Clean of that stain. I've wondered lately whence?
That's all. The coven's three hags' shrill detail
In howling incantations like to scale,
Erst wont to ring thus in mine ears for sense
And eerie visions of wild spectres thence
Too ghastly for my taste, could haunt sans bail.
Tis just her cries naught can assuage which stir
Vague questions I maunt pin down. If I do,
Where will they end? Her failure as it were
To cleanse the clinging bloodstains, if we knew,
Could we find aught forgivness? If in tour
I do not preach the Scriptures, I'll e'er rue?
See, sonnets are virtually impossible to compose if you come at them with a determination of what exactly you intend to say. IF, however, you allow the twinkling thought a chance to flesh itself out, then it's often very interesting to discover what exactly follows. Case in point? This stanza among countless.