Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. This is more-or-less an actual Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.
THAT all the world’s a stage is plain to see
upon which each of us must play his part
dramatis personæ of this royal art
our actions mesh like gears of tragedy
for each can only do as he can be
and each to each it seems can but impart
those words and deeds implanted in the start
among the sacred plot of destiny
but who is it who gathers up the corn
the one who tills the soil and plants the seed?
who is it picks us out before we’re born
and then stands still behind our every deed,
when all the choicest flowers are forlorn
arrives to gather honey from a weed?