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All English Sonnets


Fie on the lack-luster imagination,
No substance and of solidity bereft,
And fie on this deceitful inclination,
To eulogies the Heaven right and left.

Your priestly incantations well- defined,
Are nothing. Merely lies personified.
Disguised in sermons, facts are ill- confined,
By all true seekers of the truth defied.

You hear me shouting this and in surprise,
Beleaguered by my argument retort,
In well-delivered diction you surmise,
And praise to heaven, heaven which is not.

But in good humor, I your speech receive,
For the idea of some heaven gives reprieve.

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