I love you for your form and perfect grace,
Your measured pace, your style, each balanced part,
The way you charm us to our proper place
'Mid thoughts profound: you win this poet's heart.
As numbered as the men who loved you were,
Who held you long, were faithful more or less,
Who shaped you in their likeness, this I'm sure
And by the poems which lay ahead profess:
Since beauty is expressed in wide array,
The ironies of life, the truths that tell,
If like the rest your faith I should betray,
In this unlike: they never loved so well.
Forget the rival forms I may employ;
Your claim is first, dear Sonnet, to my joy.
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