Good Sir

Would that my hand not cringe
And skulk away from you
As the sweet bite of snowless air
Falls from the Heavens' gray frowns

But to be so gallant as to say --
Nay -- to feel for thee what others yet do
Would strip me of my jester's frock
And place me beside the likes of William

Alas, is it the leaves crawling on the grass
That keeps me from my heart's mistress
Or perhaps the blood, like ice, coursing throughout
And I blush as a forest nymph before a stunning MacBeth

Would that he, O good Sir, deliver me
With tidings of hope to seize the day
And would that my spirit not be swayed
By the very sonnets I seek to conceive