[Mary Meriam]

At last, a poem with feeling, love even, and a sonnet lovingly, brilliantly crafted. The last two lines are two more "Lines," the sphere is the sonnet, and the pointed ends are the ends of the lines, the end of the sonnet. Bravo, maestro! I'll take a guess this was written by David Mason.

[Ann Drysdale]

I was a bit thrown by the village Grasse without a comma, and wonder whether it has slipped down to land after "glass", where it feels slightly wrong. I think if the word village were taken out and the line(!) smoothed to convey the picture of the lavender fields and the geographical location - Grasse - without the awkwardness, it would improve an already lovely sonnet.
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[Rob Wright]

Lovely work. I also thought that the “pointed ends” were surgical stitches that would fade away. And I read the “enduring sphere” as, mundanely, the earth the addressor and addressee are sitting on.

[Charlie Southerland]

Finally, a title that is worthy of the poem. Leads me right to the poem's great octet. I like this morphing of a 'PetShake' form. I initially resisted the sestet opening of 'But' , however after reading it several times, thought it was fine.
It is a Petrarchan turn and a final resolving couplet. It is truly an excellent sonnet, all the way to the setting of the sun and night falling on the scars to hide them. My top 5.

[Orwn Acra]

Really nice. A pedantic mathematician might say that these lines are actually line segments, as true lines do not have endpoints, but I do not know any pedantic mathematicians. And anyway, the N. argues rather finely that love, like lines, can go on forever.

[Martin Rocek]

Another favorite of mine--a beautifully developed image, a well executed turn, true feeling and superb craft.

[Jennifer Gordon]

The Petrarchan is too often allowed to conclude with an illegitimate couplet to eliminate this pretty bit of work from that higher label, methinks.

After that, I stupidly lean forward, trying to see past the mere words into that vista casually stretching out and subtly twisted out from expansive verdure into a champagne moment, isn't it?

Too pointedly a classic lover's sonnet, this weightily carries the note of finality as he endeavours like the Bard to erase her fading presence by love's cleverness, as Wordsworth also tried to pull off initially.

Set in France, it is too exquisitely rendered with the usual insinuation of romance. I love it, prone to chose it unthinkingly for its delicious near perfection.

[Catherine Chandler]

I want so much to vote for this sonnet, but the borrowed "beaded bubbles" are bothering me to no end !