O modest leaf, thou bearer of delight, Drawn from the East, yet made a Briton’s crown. At break of day, or in the waning night, Thy amber draught doth calm the spirit down.
In china cup or stout ceramic urn, Thou steeps in grace, as tempests rage or rest. Though coffee bold may cause the hearts to churn, Thou holds it still, and bids the blood flow best.
A scone beside, or rain upon the pane, Thy steam doth rise with whispers old and wise. When sorrows weigh or joy doth feel too plain, Thy warmth restores the stars to darkened skies.
So brew thee now, thou leaf of legacy— And let thy solace steep eternally.
Wouldst thou care for one in praise of biscuits next? Or shall we delve into the politics of the kettle vs. the microwave—an epic worthy of Homer’s quill! ?￢
Sonnet to the biscuit
Thou takest dunking like a knight the plunge, Into the steaming depths of earl grey tides. And though thou break’st, we mourn not the expunge— For crumbs, like dreams, bring joy that still abides.
So let us eat, and in thy praises sing, O biscuit bold—thou art a tasty king.
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