ARS DURA

How many evenings, walking soberly

Along our street all dappled with rich sun,

I please myself with words, and happily

Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run;

And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies

Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask,

Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes

And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!

Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft

But he had put away his sleep, his ease,

The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed,

To brood upon such thankless tricks as these?

And yet, such joy does in that craft abide

He greets the paper as the groom the bride!