Story Notes: I'm posting this as a test to see if we have the functionality to add stories. And we do! Note below was copied from AO3.

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Context! I wrote this sonnet when I was 17 and I'd started work on my very first Spuffy fic (which I plan to edit this year). It was before Season 7 aired and there were rumors galore running around about what a souled Spike would be like. Since (at the time) Angel/Angelus were viewed as two different beings, my inaugural fic treated souled!Spike as William (with fangs) rather than the Spike we got on the show (who was far superior). My William went right back to writing poetry, even published a book of it in my fic-world and became super popular. This poem was in his poetry book.
 
Also important: I am not a poet. Like, at all. I first wrote this as an assignment for my AP Lit class (during which I disguised a lot of fanfic as creative writing homework and no one noticed, haha) while we were studying Shakespeare. I had Kenneth Branagh's Love's Labors Lost playing in the background, particularly the scene where Branagh beats out iambic pentameter so I could get the meter right. But William being a "bloody awful poet" means that it doesn't have to be good.
 
Seriously, my poetry professor in college was relieved when I told him I write fiction, not poetry, 'cause he was afraid he'd have to break the bad news that I suck and dash the dreams of an aspiring poet. I've never been a poet, aspiring or otherwise, and I was well aware of the suckage. Still am. So don't expect great things.
 
That said, James did a reading of this for me on Cameo and he can make anything sound cool.