Poem: What Guile is This?

I decided to attempt a form today. The Spenserian sonnet, while less known than the Shakespearean or Petrarchan, is one of my favorites with its interlocking rhymes.

What Guile Is This?
Edmund Spenser

What guile is this, that those her golden tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold:
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair, may scarce be told?
Is it that men's frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare:
And being caught may craftily enfold,
Their weaker hearts, which are not well aware?
Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Fondness it were for any being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Here is my sonnet.
-

What Guile is This?

What guile is this, that crimson dress unfolds
over skirt of ivory, petticoat of lace,
white gloves concealing smoothness untold
and innocence framing such a charmed face?
For months we drilled this charmed race
waltzing in jeans, drenched in sweat,
our silhouettes sans poise, intention, or grace.
As weeks dwindled by, I began to forget
why I labored these figures and turns. Yet
the moment she stepped out, epiphany took:
she was as beautiful as the day we met
and my memorized steps fled with one look.
What transformation a Victorian dress bought!
(and no one noticed the steps I forgot.)