Unruliness subdued by symmetry,
Wild passion caged by Shakespeare’s sonnet form,
By rhythm bound, can sentiments be warm?
Fettered by meter, can a soul be free?
Does pain not also rack the virile breast?
Are women unique in feeling love and loss?
Do men at night not sleepless turn and toss?
In rhyme from their unease can they not rest?
Has verse no place in modern, present time?
Is it of yesteryear and long ago?
For women only? Nay, it is not so;
Men too have use—aye, even need—for rhyme.
In ordinary prose, we are but men;
We soar like angels when we sonnets pen.
—Photo credit: pmbell64/Flickr