Although my ears were ringing with its rhymes

I edited  my sonnet sixty times
It didn’t seem so many to my mind
Although my ears were ringing with its rhymes
To criticise myself seems quite unkind

What seemed to be a metre was none such
I could not sing it like Gray’s Elegy
My language late at night seems Double Dutch
But writing will, like loving,  pleasure me.

If only we could edit when we speak
Instead of blurting out “the honest truth”
To stop our malice making others bleak
Or injuring their hearts with words uncouth.

When we reflect, we learn  to see our speech
As something not entirely out of reach.