Indeed I’d liken thee to a hot intemperate day.
Thy art work hangs on the wall by the bed:
in the heat and torrents of Summer’s bray
the painting warps ‘n tilts though glee outspreads
Though furies of heaven are too hot tempered to tame
And oft’ the sea would rush in with scorn,
a perfect day fickled with clouds it disclaims
a wispy willow tickled and teased forlornly
Though a Sonnet in thy bonnet hotter than the Sun
thy eternal fire of soul consumes thee not;
Thy burning bush fertility rite not done
Nor will death retrieve heat God wot:
One summer’s day none can tame
As there’d be forever my Dame.
[Thy reference: Sonnet 18, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” — Shakespeare]