NOT YET A POET

Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown,

In oblivion, all unknown;

Still many more, perchance, I say,

Float on in one unbroken lay —

But ask me naught of where or when,

Long as they ring in hearts of men!

Dear friend, I say these words to you,

Which through the ages will be true:

Though I have power to combine

These subtle rhymes of each sweet line —

Yet, I shall never live to see,

The title “POET” given me!