Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to the printed pages?
Shall I compare thee to a work of fiction?
With thy fiery passion for the middle ages,
For turgid prose, a joy of lex and proper diction.
Ah, the longing for prolific lit, my torrid lover
Of words, indulge me in thy soul's affair
With the English tongue, hidden under cover
Of a simple pauper sketched as millionaire.
Thou art a special part of every maudlin day
Conflicted like a sunny summer's warm light rain
"If only" and in dreams, then coffee by a Swiss chalet
To chat and turn the cogs of my right brain.
If ever we would, the same world inhabit,
Thou wouldst no longer be my one bad habit.