Remember When

Return to me the childhood songs of life
Borne high on music of some flute ascending
Like the poet's lark to lift the heart from strife
And call us home beyond the never-ending,
Never less than empty daze, the patient midwife
Of our weary gaze upon misfortunes pending,
Which all men fear: the mortal nature's knife
We keep as far from sight as fools pretending.
So let their sweet and youthful songs burst out
Like swallows bearing summer on their tails
To fill tired ears of frightened, lonely men
Who've long forgot old ways to make joy shout
Of who they were and all their lives' details
With truth enough for all to laugh again.

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Someone once told me that if you want to write good poetry that breaks the rules you need to be able to use the rules you'll break. So, sonnet practice. It's not quite Milton but it does follow his (Italian) rhyming scheme.
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