"Thy Song": A Pop-Sonnet

'Tis odd, this sentiment within my breast.
My deep desires -- O! I fail to hide!
If gold, in place of dust, could fill my chest,
A castle grand is where we would abide.
If I, like Michelangelo of old,
Could hew the living rock into thy form,
Or if my potions at the fair were sold,
But nay ... my song is what shall keep thee warm.
Though verdant or of azure, I know not,
No sweeter eyes have 'ere before met mine.
Forgive these trifles I have quite forgot,
Proclaim it to the world, this song is thine!
I prithee, do not mind my scroll unfurled.
'Tis wonderful that thou art in the world.