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I should not compare thee to words extant
From the ink of the dead poet, which fell
To the scribe from the doomed soul facing jaunt
Toward the ringing of life’s ending bell.

Words change over time, are not trustworthy,
And cannot be a genuine token;
The faint poet writes with words defile
The delicate rose, which wilts when spoken.

With what words will I write to share my love?
All has been said; leave me, Impediment,
To woo at odds end, to lament above
For planting me without any words sent.

If I write words written times before hand,
Will it ever emerge from leaves of man?