THE LAST SONNET

Suppose one knew that never more might one

Put pen to sonnet, well loved task; that now

These fourteen lines were all he could allow

To say his message, be forever done;

How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme,

Intent to sum in dearly chosen phrase

The windy trees, the beauty of his days,

Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime.

How bitter then would be regret and pang

For former rhymes he dallied to refine,

For every verse that was not crystalline....

And if belike this last one feebly rang,

Honour and pride would cast it to the floor

Facing the judge with what was done before.