I’m resting and listening to Beethoven
His Eighth Symphony to be precise
He called it his ‘Little Symphony’
But that doesn’t do it justice to me
It soars in such magical splendour
T’would be an insult to call it nice.
The majesty of the individual notes
Joined from such exactness of intent
Each note climbs up to heaven
Exactly as it was meant
I cannot match such beauty
And neither will I try
For when I listen to Beethoven
My eyes are rarely dry.
©Joe Wilson – A love of Beethoven (a sonnet)2014