Grapes of Tyrian hue delight my eye,
their wines seduce my song and tongue alike;
why should I seek surcease, to raise a sigh
like ghosts of smoke when sparks from stone alight
unto the heavens? Why sigh, seek deny
the touch of wine on tongue's not welcome, strike
a lie--why should my song and tongue deny
the velvety-voiced wines that they both like?
Sing sonnet, sing sonnet, your rhymes are sweet
and make me sleep when night arrives. Oh, fine
is Tyrian touch, rich and sweet or dry,
but time is mortal, time is ever fleet,
but although smooth are sonnets' loving wine,
it makes me sigh, the sonnets make me sigh.