15-line sonnet

Had great fun driving on ice yesterday  -_-  Today’s sonnet:

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XCIX

  The forward violet thus did I chide:

  Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

  If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

  Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

  In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.

  The lily I condemned for thy hand,

  And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;

  The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

  One blushing shame, another white despair;

  A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,

  And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;

  But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

  A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

    More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,

    But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.

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Note:  It’s fifteen lines, not fourteen lines  J  Fourteen lines do not a sonnet make, because, like Jim said, a sonnet’s really all about turns.  Dante has some twenty-line sonnets (Dante himself called them sonnets).  But the volta’s obvious in this one:  It’s the yet in the penultimate line.  I’m going to be in triple digits tomorrow  J