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All English Sonnets

It was something wanting to be told.
It was something like a pot of gold.
It was something unspoken, untried,
A radiant sentiment, unspecified.

I found it very difficult to hold;
A jumbled of unsentenced words.
On which I was absolutely sold
But I could hardly tell it to the birds.

So, as you come in, I was going to speak
And tell you all about the cooing dove
And all about its innocent and meek
And patient, uncomplaining wait for Love.

But as I saw you coming on the trot,
My vow to forget nothing, I forgot.

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