SONNET I.
Perhaps a timid meaning, born of hush,
a shade of sensing, painted in a dream,
is inspiration—breathing in a rush
of weightless air, by touch of words redeemed.
And morning’s pearls, those drops of early light,
the tones of dew strewn softly through the soul,
join into theses, sounding all and slight—
that something, hope we’re never deaf in whole,
when by the simplest will to hold that flow
we drink through verse, intoxicate our mind.
Are we just dreamers, swayed by ego so?
Or poets—bringing something good to kind?
For one day, somewhere, others will decide,
and from our faults perhaps will not let slide.
Author: Veron
