SONNET 60

Sonnet.60- As to the seasons of sweet roses,silver morn fragrance will at my succour summon the golden rays of unsulli'd moon, And my night be morning even as my morning be night,No starry night but all starry morn encapsulat'd,and no senile woes wail thy dearest,time's intergrity,Then can i my masterstroke verdict pluck,from a reticulat'd port in a storm,of an anticlockwise and anticlimax supperimposition of antiheroism,into eulogy of silvermoon purple birth,Then can i not drown myself in disrepute,for the pernicious floats,windstorm'd in windswept's sullen trough,And be that rejoice of things unknown,of distant hills'unseen land,since purple birth 's unruly crossroad cross'd,And joyous the variables and expense of variegated a battlefield surmount'd,Then can i grieve no grievances at grievances forlorn,And purple birth of silver morn from disuse to enthralling ado not entangl'd with plantive akimbo.