Writing a Sonnet

When I start, I’m at a loss,
Should I with the sunshine of her face?
Or from delicate palms first emboss,
Followed then with her arm’s grace?

Should I from pedestal flawless to look upon,
Embark on my Descriptive & bestirring tales?
Or from character & knowledge later to don,
Chaste halo of her maiden sails?

To imitate living art, by chance
Perfect poetry that walks among men,
Bearing at once wit, drama, humour, and romance,
Needs more than one mind and pen,

For in each person resides a poem,
To be grasped by holder of right key,
Yet at the beauty of her vibrant rhythm,
I tremble to write, though perceived by me,

And that in which my thoughts constantly lave,
Shall I in the end bring into fame?
That which will echo within confines of my grave,
As the hollow of my tongue keeps whispering her name?