When stating out to write a verse like this,
The formal kind, with meter and with rhyme,
You’ll find the process rather hit or miss,
The upshot comical and not sublime.
It’s true, the masters of the form succeed,
Like Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton, Pope and Frost,
But lesser talents now wish to be freed,
Hence classic practices are nearly lost.
A few of us, however, labor on,
Striving to keep the antique arts alive,
Reviving what with age was growing wan,
Still finding honey in this ancient hive.
Remember that a sonnet is a song,
And at the best, it makes you sing along.