A SONNET OF SONNETS.
(A Dreadful Object-Lesson.)
I've often thought I'd like to write a sonnet,
I wonder, though, if I can find the way.
Sometimes you muse upon your mistress—say
Her eyebrow, then you poetise upon it.
Maybe instead you celebrate her bonnet,
A striking symphony in green or grey.
And when it's done, for many and many a day,
With eager eye, you ever scan and con it,
Intent on seeing that it's quite correct,
And free from all suspicion of defect,
No inauspicious phrase, no halting line.
And when the time of scrutiny is past
Your thought is probably exactly mine—
Thank heaven! the horrid thing is done at last!