W. H. Speaks.

Had you compared me 'to a summer's day,'          
as hot lightning bolts flashed from angry eye        
and sterner stuff than 'darling bud's of may'          
with thunder-claps roiling off tongue, I cried            
            
as your weak pen wrote me towards my grave            
and gave me over to other eyes and hand,            
passionless, hid, behind your black ink's shade            
and what beauty I owned now, ever dimmed,            
             
entombed in the bland coffin of your script            
eternally shrouded by your weak words,            
now, no one can give me a face which fits        
then, I might have struggled up, to be heard.            
             
You drew me impotent then, laid me low            
I'll sleep now, I forgave you long ago...