The Bard of Avon

‘Tis summer, the air hot and heavy in its heat

As I ponder the wisdom in writing like the Bard

'Tis an attempt of which I cannot fully speak

The words to equal his; this task may prove quite marred.

The softness of the summer wind blows about me again

Carrying the bloom of flowers with a fragrance so sweet

As I sit amidst it all to ponder the perfect words to pen

With which the Bard’s great approval might possibly meet.

Dare I speak of summer love or its sweet respite,

Or the beauty of the birds and butterflies that flit about,

Or mayhap the ingenious character that oft’ he gave the night?

I cannot say for I am consumed with perpetual doubt.

Methinks no one can pen a sonnet as lovely as Shakespeare

For his writings spring eternal, enduring for endless years.