You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care
Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.
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;
And in the chinks your adjectives you lay—
Your phrases, folded neatly as you may,
The tender quatrain where your moral sings—
You crush and crumple all these fragile things.