This Sonnet's Thine

Apologies to Elton John and Bernie Taupin.

How queerly beats this heart within mine breast!
My gold is scant, I own no manse nor lands
No sculptor I, nor potion-making blest
My quill’s the loom that weaves gifts from these hands
Upon the roof I sat to write these rhymes
But wroth I grew to scan this self-same verse
Then kindly sun bethought me that betimes
Thy kindled light shall lift my soul’s black curse
Thy pardon, dear! My muddled mind is dark.
Azure or vert, I cannot cozen which
From mem’ry’s vault. It matters not. But hark!
With eyes like thine a pauper’s purse feels rich!
And thou canst tell the world this sonnet’s thine
For all the world’s mine stage when thou art mine.