What’s a poem but mastery of sense,
Of complex grammar wrought with greatest care,
Of meters, lines, and glistening ornaments.
Steered by winds of wise that to none compare.
A dress of silk so greatly sewn it seems
So seamless, by every tailor its sought;
So perfect that it flows in glossy streams
And sings much softer than a cradle rocks.
From where does it come? This good, loving hand
though sometimes amateur, forever deft
Each syllable and tiny turn is planned
‘Till words do disappear and art is left.
It touches lands that kiss mighty seas --
A poem is beauty, and all of these.