It would be a mistake to think that all sonnets are romantic love songs. Perhaps the best known sonnets are and certainly most of Shakespeare’s sonnets give us that romantic feeling. For some reason the word sonnet just has that love poem ring to it quite apart from the facts.

So here is a sonnet that Milton wrote after a committee meeting. You gotta love Milton. He doesn’t seem to have fallen into the error of separating the sacred from the secular. The one thing you won’t find in Milton is humor. Sometimes I just ache for that poor man.

To the Lord General Cromwell, on the Proposals of Certain Ministers at the Committee for the Propagation of the Gospel

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reared God’s trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains
To conquer still; Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than War: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.

Personally, I think the best way to write a sonnet is to read several sonnets with the same metre several times over. Then come up with a first line with the embodiment of your thought. Write out your pattern ahead of time on the paper and then just let it flow.

My mind tends towards the metre of Milton’s Sonnet on His Blindness which really makes up for his committee meeting poems. But truthfully isn’t the above poem quite good in spite of its mundane subject.

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Now THAT is a sonnet!