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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=368284" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 2: Mortal (Petrarchan)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=368284" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The garden state of Eden soon proved stale<br>to plucky and inquisitive young Eve<br>So she decided she would rather leave<br>than have that boring status-quo prevail.<br>Now ever since we mope, be-moan and rail, <br>throw up our hands, tear out our hair and grieve<br>Pray fervently that there may be reprieve<br>from naughty-Eve inflicted mortal jail.<br>But may I say a word in her defence-<br>How could immortal life hold any charm, <br>when every game we play derives it's sense<br>from striving 'gainst the impetus of harm.<br>There could not be a purpose more intense<br>than racing to elude death's shrill alarm.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Diane+Hine">Diane Hine</a></strong></div>

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