i understand from osymandias that it's International Poetry Month.

[fox]

I've got two!

The first is one we did in a musical setting in my choir's recent concert, and I found it (the text and the music) very lovely indeed. I'm not going to monkey with the formatting here, but I've seen the thing written like a wreath, in a circle, with the end of one line overlapping with the beginning of the next and then curving around in an arc, which is nifty.

'A Wreath', by George Herbert

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live : for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
Than deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know thy wayes,
Know them and practise them : then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

ABAB CDCD BABA, around in a circle; twelve lines, not fourteen, a sonnet without its couplet, not ending but turning back on itself and beginning again. Oh, it makes me so happy. (obSide Note to free verse writers, particularly those under 17: better believe old George could write a proper sonnet when he chose to, is what. Have to know the rules before you can break them. Thank you.)

And, in a similar (in a way) vein, did you think I was going to pass up a chance to talk about Dorothy?

Rondeau Redoublé (and Scarcely Worth the Trouble, at That), by Dorothy Parker

The same to me are sombre days and gay.
     Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
     Within my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
     That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
     The same to me are sombre days and gay.

Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
     And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
     Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.

Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
     As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
     Because my dearest love is gone away.

Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
     And virgin daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
     Within my heart is melancholy night.

And this, oh love, my pitiable plight
     Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light ...
     I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
                                        The same to me.