Sonnet # 9 by Luis A. Estable

Can I conpare with you, The Mighty One?
No! Not even in dreams I have that luck!
I am a spark; you are no doubt the sun;
I have to say when sadly roses I pluck.
And in my mind I surely search with care
And find these words ashamed for lack of more:
Who made your heart, your soul, your mind, and where?
I say it loud until my throat is sore.
I read, and read; yes, read for many years
Thought I had seen it all to my eyes` core.
Then I discovered you and said with tears,
“Forgive my talents poor, Immortal Door!
Here Shakespeare comes, and Dante and Milton cry.
Some tears from William Blake; He`s not that high.

End of the poem

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