Sonnet on a first draft with apologies to the Bard of Avon 

Shall I compare thee to a winters day? 

Thou art more dismal and depressing. 

Rough winds do lead my mind astray, 

And oh my memory is too short. 

Sometimes too hot my sentence runs, 

And often purpose slinks away 

Though fair intention aims the bow 

The arrow's path will often stray; 

So sit awhile I must in thought, 

And contemplate the stanzas done 

For long’s the road that I must walk 

Ere this work's twisted course is run

 Re-write a line for better fit and ease 

So those who read its finish will be pleased