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Introduction This is the place: you're at The Sonnet Page, / Where everything is said in fourteen lines, / Where happy thoughts about how many tines / A proper fork should have are all the rage. / Should Russian acrobats still take the stage / When filled with longing for those jungle vines / Tarzan used so effectively? One dines / On iambs, then decides, relaxed and sage. / / / / / No thirteen liners, stanzas crammed too full / To fit the common mould, no anapests, / No dactyls, no unseemly pyrrhic jests, / Just fourteen stately lines of cock and bull. / You're here because you also feel the pull / Of sonnets, where the elegant heart rests.