Should I compare her to a summer’s day
Or to a winter’s gentle kiss goodbye?
Perhaps I’ll draw her as a marigold,
Or is my love more like the red, red rose?
I could portray her dancing dressed in red
Across a ballroom brimmed with jealous men,
Or pose her silent, sitting in the dew,
A silken tent set in a midday field.
I might boast: Always patient, always kind.
I might describe the moonlight in her eyes.
I might confess I’d never set her free,
Too great a risk, were we not meant to be.
But in the end, there’re just too many ways,
So I will simply call her . . . Poetry.