THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK

The sonnet is a trunk, and you must pack

With care, to ship frail baggage far away;

The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray;

Tight, but not overloaded, is the knack.

First, at the bottom, heavy thoughts you stack,

And in the chinks your adjectives you lay —

Your phrases, folded neatly as you may,

Stowing a syllable in every crack.

Then, in the tray, your daintier stuff is hid:

The tender quatrain where your moral sings —

Be careful, though, lest as you close the lid

You crush and crumple all these fragile things.

Your couplet snaps the hasps and turns the key —

Ship to The Editor, marked C. O. D.