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.”