A True Sonnet

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The Love that I made was a juvenile crime;
For it was not some mad Romeo's child,
Which planted in me this desire so wild
To evil my mind and kill benign time;
As under the influence of a spell
Cast by a wild-eyed fairy's sweet romance,
I see a recurring dream, lost in trance:
Only to be later thrown into Hell.
My limbs no more walk to the Temple post;
My lips no more sing the prayer Holy;
Struck by some ill-conspired melancholy,
My heart no more aches for Apollo's ghost
Of whom a young bard from past sang aloud,
Seeing himself afloat over that cloud.

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