The Flowering

The sonnet which the sonneteer will spoil
    With loving faith and tender nurturing
Rewards the poet's care and gentle toil
    With beauties which to no other verse will cling,
Becoming it the delicatest flower
    That ever rose upon a thorny stem,—
That ever felt descend from heaven a shower,—
    That ever garnered envy from a gem.
Attaining heights which never shrug petiteness,
    Bashful but poised it fills out its physique,
Displaying then a sweetly pretty neatness,
    The air both soft and strong, hardy and meek.
Crowning it perfect twice will be its bloom
And the long-lasting scent of its perfume.

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