Minister of Truth
Practically Perfect
I began this sonnet eight years ago as a high school senior on a particularly boring day in Shakespeare class. It started off as satire, as Will liked to use the word a lot in his work. I slowly edited it over the next two years and came up with this:
A heavenly complexion, never dimmed,
Did never take a lady—until thee:
When mighty bosoms, that with magic trimmed,
Were mounted on thy chest for men to see.
They are thy gift, concealed in silken cuff.
A prize I need and did’st for so long seek—
And sight that tears mine eyes in gaze so tough—
With tips: Where beauty’s meaning meets its peak.
Unhinge them hang, so I may with them play,
Thy teeming mounds of wondrous shapely flair,
And in my urgèd care do let them stay.
Thou fair’st of fair, could ne’er a woman fare:
To me, come thee, whose bosoms none can match.
Unfathomed luck to me, if I them catch.
A heavenly complexion, never dimmed,
Did never take a lady—until thee:
When mighty bosoms, that with magic trimmed,
Were mounted on thy chest for men to see.
They are thy gift, concealed in silken cuff.
A prize I need and did’st for so long seek—
And sight that tears mine eyes in gaze so tough—
With tips: Where beauty’s meaning meets its peak.
Unhinge them hang, so I may with them play,
Thy teeming mounds of wondrous shapely flair,
And in my urgèd care do let them stay.
Thou fair’st of fair, could ne’er a woman fare:
To me, come thee, whose bosoms none can match.
Unfathomed luck to me, if I them catch.