Oh, pulpy mountain lies in the plane so high
And guarded slate set against pallid cliffs
From there the memoryís love cannot sigh
Although in her each part will be dismissed
But her name shall be immortal tongue not die
Though she, once gone, to all the roots must
The dust can give her but a common grave lie
Then she attached to young minds to trust
Her mountain shall be her inheritance
For those yet conceived to be found
And to all her name shall be recompense
When the bricks of construction fallen bound
She shall live, her virtue knows no sin
In pulpy mountain and verse of men.
A Shakespearean sonnet contains but fourteen
Verses of much and carefully selected poetry
But, the word count only one hundred ten seen
So, this short ditty added for one hundred fifty.
Now, nine more words to go, more to rush.
Thatís all we made it, a hundred and fifty plus.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.