English Sonnet

The grass on it's slope it seeps
Into the unseen phenomenon
Writer's dulce
the faun's loyal hoove
in eternal Spring stoops
to lift the holy muse
We sing last nights moon
And while the Afgan poppies dream of June
She swings her hair in some country pub
Calling me a loon
While in secret
she mutters her hallelujahs
I quiver solid lyres to infinity
she still a renegade felicitous