SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET CONTEST: Closed

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Press This Page

Come fill the pages of my life, leafing
Through this tender tome of learning, alive
With the knowledge of your sweet touch, briefing
Me in myriad ways. Leaf on, Oh Scribe
Supreme, whetted fingers etching my scenes.
Scan my lines and peruse the phrases of
My hungry soul, enrolling wondrous reams
Of carefree days spent in our book of love.
Enchant me with your tales of tender grace,
Erasing all the pain of yesteryear.
And if perchance you lose your precious place,
Come, press this page, whereon you left a tear.


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'Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never sleeps at all.' - Emily Dickinson