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All English Sonnets


Tears are neither proud, no, nor are meek,
One can not call them weak or call them strong.
They flow in happy tunes, moments bleak,
And live in painful wail, honeyed song.

They can be called up by a waspish sting,
Or by a soothing pat or a velvet hug,
Or by a most inconsequential thing,
like blinking eyelid or a placid shrug.

Tears can flow like torrents unrestricted,
And plummet like the streams when forbidden,
Or when one wants to cry, lie contained,
In bowers of the soul, calm and hidden.

In dreamless slumber, or when wide awake,
Tears are stuff that our emotions make.

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