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User:Olaf Davis/Wikipoem

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A Sonnet, with apologies.

My mistress shines, no nothing like the sun;
Britannica's seen decades for her every year.
If FAs be white, why then her stubs are dun;
If links be wires, red wires sprout forth from her.
I have seen printed pages, free from vandal fight,
But no such unscarred paper find I here;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the edit wars that mark my mistress dear.
I love to read her words, yet well I know
That literature hath far more pleasing tone;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress birthed from mortal man alone:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

A Sonnet, annotated.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.