At first glance, the poem seems to start like a really awkward little love poem, doesn’t it? It feels like the poet is almost awkward in professing his love. He has to ask whether he ought to go ahead with the comparison (couldn’t he just make the comparison without all the anxiety?), and the best compliments he can come up with are "lovely" and "temperate." This isn’t high-flown language, and there’s nothing particularly inspiring here. If we didn’t have the rest of the poem to go on, we’d think this poem was by some sad sap who had no idea how to express himself poetically. Instead, though, once we get to the end of the poem, we realize that these lines sound awkward because the speaker’s heart isn’t really in it. He’s into himself and the idea of writing a poem, and it’s only there where his language can shine.