Old poets, torturing their thoughts to rhyme,
their lovely English verse to end-words tied,
oft found just cause to moan of 'envious Time',
and seek immortal fame in 'Time defied';
for rhymesters, it is ever June, when moon
shines on their corn; for moralists, base love
may find in Plato reason to attune
and lift their Muse to world on world above -
and then, there's Shakespeare: from whose boundless art
flows liquid gold; whose words bring heaven to earth,
to sing love's beauty; melt the frozen heart,
make men to cry with joy; gods, weep with mirth:
a sonnet's span can bring one to oneself;
in fourteen lines, bequeath us heaven's wealth.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fourteen-lines/
