Sonnet

I was going to give you a small simple poem about a coward and a king's son, but then I looked at it and said to myself 'whatever for? just because I feel like typing?'

Here's one with merit:

a Sonnet, by William Wordsworth

The World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. - Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.