User:Olaf Davis/Wikipoem

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.