Dear man, who is known not but by a few,

Who never then rested on his laurels,

By a troubled heart, inked his quarrels.

On the pages splayed, some honor is due.

History agrees, its hands point to you.

The first humanist, using words oh-so-floral.

Did you know? Your words are immortal.

Beyond Shakespeare, your sonnets should be too.

But never did you grasp love’s hold, alas.

For sweet Laura was, before you, taken.

But that love never, despite death, did pass.

In grief, that love never would be shaken.

Though, dear man, I do not mean to be crass,

But, dear man, your Love will not awaken.