His morning lap what time he heard the bell;
An so it made the poem stuff to jell--
To mix a met.--an so it boil'd the pot.

Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit!
I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats.
"Scorn?" Nay, I love thy fine symmetric
grace.
In sonnets one knows always where to quit,
Unlike in other poems where one cheats
And strings it out to fill the yawning
space.



The Poem Speaks

(Cut this out in either case.)


Poet, ere you write me,
Stem the flowing ink;
Or that you indite me
Pause upon the brink.

Strummer of the lyre
Maker of the tune,
Give me a desire--
Bless me with a boon.