(sonnet # CCCLXXI)
It's rather quite a game to me, this art
Called poetry, because the sonnet form
Demands much more than simple rhymes; transforms
The usual thoughtful means wherein the heart
Expresses scenes, moods, myr'ad joys, griefs; part
And parcel pouring out itself: each storm,
Dear scheme, vain dream life knows; and nigh reforms
In its strict sphere, whilst glory, grace imparts.
A dulcet chase ensues as it refines
Within its "scanty plot," and half subdues
Each wilderness of thought. While it confines,
It hones to heights ne'er seen elsewise; imbues
Each muse with eloquence as its designs
Precision lend. A merry game. It woos.
10Dec11
D38b