When you consider Corneille, with his alternate masculine and feminine rhymes,
All in their terrifying alexandrines finely tuned, my guess is
That the poets in those times
Wore the impression of keen stresses
As rubies, ere they’d yield their poetry up to shame.
In this, one may tentatively suggest that poetry is a game,
But one in which the rules
Cannot followèd be by fools.
Only the lonely, those with distemper and the lame,
Would run the risk of rhythm-rage or, worse,
The apology of prosody for verse.
Whereas those for whom poetry is a flame
Quickly learn that fires go out.
Do you feel thus? Well – there’s no need to pout!
The discipline of titles reminds us all
That meanings sometimes lie too deep for words
And infinity is deceptively small
As the sky must sometimes seem to birds.
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