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“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more scorching with thine words not temperate.
And like the rough winds, harsh and in constant flux, of may.
Thine mood too also changing for a date.
Sometimes the lustful eyes of thine, on me, shines.
Min logic is led by thee to be momentarily dimmed.
Some moons later, that min heart finds teasing, thine interest slowly declines.
Our “love story” halts, incomplete and untrimmed.
Memory of thine, I hope, will slowly fade.
Still feelings of romance in min heart I sorrowfully ow’st.
Remembering, in your arms that I found, the mirage of shade.
Alas, mourning of thine onliest grow’st.
When will min heart move on? I shall see.
Best hath no more heartbreak, min reasoning says, over thee.
Old English Words
Ow’st: to possess