Most poetry today (or what’s called that)
By ancient standards fails to measure up
And, lacking rhyme and meter, it sounds flat,
Straggling when it ought to march: hup! hup!
Then, without rhymes, it’s lost a source of wit
And the anticipated happiness
Of watching the deft poet leap and hit
The mark he set with evident success.
But even more, adhering to a form,
Though tedious and mechanical to some
Who have not felt imagination warm
Till in a fervent flash the right words come,
Turns out to be divine invention’s key,
The timeless source of lasting poetry.