Thursday, May 30, 2013


    He came to understand he had a gift,
    Though not for narrative and not for song;
    His readiness to turn a verse was swift,
    His sonnet done before the hour’s gong.

    It said its say more than it sang,
    Discoursing and explaining as it went,
    Midway between a whimper and a bang,
    Clever at times, but never heaven sent.

    At best a rumination versified,
    His fourteen lines displayed an agile mind,
    And yet no sonnet destined to abide
    Emerged: the Muse and he were not allied.

         This then must be his mournful epitaph:
         “He aimed for praise; at best he got a laugh.”