SONNETS TO SOMA

ANNE HILDENBRAND

Me thinks that there is nothing known more grand
In all the vast expance of time and space
In all things known to the Human Race
Than a sonnet by Anne Hildenbrand.
The Petrarchan form that issueth from her hand
Reveals the truth through furls of faded lace,
The youthful girl beneath her ancient face;
And yet it doth confound to understand
Why her stuff is so God awful bad;
And, yet contains such lofty thoughts,
Prfound vocabulary worthy of Bryn Mawr.
Oh, Woe to know her lines don't flow. 'Tis sad
To think that we shall linger in their sound
Long after our dear Anne hath crossed the Bar.