Let that myth die that rhymes freedom refrain,
That, grammar a sonnet’s sweetness fetter,
That, pen’s creativity they constrain,
Nay, they add to their beauty, scarce deter.
The metre that appears to restrain,
In truth, entices a sonnet to sing,
For, where would pleasure be if there’s no pain?
To autumn’s ache owes the splendour of spring.
Strings get tuned...
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