by Luis G. Dato
You know that Shakespeare wrote immortal verse,
A hundred sonnets fifty-four it was,
Well, I for you his record will surpass
In this attempt my faint lyre to rehearse
In flight melodious albeit not as terse.
For no dark lady but my village lass,
At whose step roses blossom from the grass
And sunshine comes from just a smile of hers.
My hundred sonnets will Italian be,
Because the syntax it makes intricate,
And if I fail him in word sculptury,
To chant in borrowed language was my fate,
And if the loss has been my victory,
The obstacles at least were far more great!
