Those eyes, 'neath which my passionate rapture rose,And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain.The arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhileCould my own soul from its own self beguile,And in a separate world of dreams enclose,The hair's bright tresses, full of golden glows,And the soft lightning of the angelic smileThat changed this earth to some celestial isle,Are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows.And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn,Left dark without the light I loved in vain,Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn;Dead is the source of all my amorous strain,Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn,
This is a petrachan poem that would help.
"Sonnet 292" by Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374)
The eyes I spoke of once in words that burn,
the arms and hands and feet and lovely face
that took me from myself for such a space
of time and marked me out from other men;
the waving hair of unmixed gold that shone,
the smile that flashed with the angelic rays
that used to make this earth a paradise,
are now a little dust, all feeling gone;
and yet I live, grief and disdain to me,
left where the light I cherished never shows,
in fragile bark on the tempestuous sea.
Here let my loving song come to a close;
the vein of my accustomed art is dry,
and this, my lyre, turned at last to tears.
I found this one posted by someone named "Wordsman". It is a parody of Sonnet 130 and puts a more rap beat to it and modernization.
My lover is not perfect,
nor is she as complete as our circular earth is.
A goddess, she is not for certain,
and if she attempted a broadway show
I would probably close the curtain.
An angel, well far from it,
and if she attempted to try to fly
she would most certainly plummet.
And if she claimed Cleopatra's style,
I would tell her outright she was
clearly in denile.
But a time may come
A day may arise
when dogs can talk
and pigs can fly...
But until that day, I must preach
that perfection it seems, is out of her reach.
Some talk of locks of gold,
but I doubt my lover's hair would equal
that much, if sold.
And some speak of beauty forever,
but my lover's features will fade
like a tree seeming weathered.
And she'll never have the voice
of a trained opera star,
but some say they're lovers
sweet voice sings so far.
Some poets strive to
make their lovers cry,
by preaching sweet things
that they know is a lie...
My lover, though she may not be perfect
is the one that I love
and truly she's worth it.
Ten folds more beautiful
than any fair goddess
which might not seem modest
but I am truly honest.
And if you dare to ask if she's equal to a queen,
I would tell you she's not, but she is perfect to me.