The Amateur Botanist
A primrose by a river's brim Primula vulgaris was to him, And it was nothing more; A pansy, delicately reared, Viola tricolor appeared In true botanic lore.
That which a pink the layman deems Dianthus caryophyllus seems To any flower-fan; or A sunflower, in that talk of his, Annuus helianthus is, And it is nothing more.
A Word for It
"Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not,
I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle,
Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel,
Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot,
An so it made my Pegasus to trot
His morning lap what time he heard the bell;
An so it made the poem stuff to jell—
To mix a met.—an so it boil'd the pot.
Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit!
I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats.
"Scorn?" Nay, I love thy fine symmetric
grace.
In sonnets one knows always where to quit,
Unlike in other poems where one cheats
And strings it out to fill the yawning
space.
The Poem Speaks
(Cut this out in either case.)
Poet, ere you write me,
Stem the flowing ink;
Or that you indite me
Pause upon the brink.
Strummer of the lyre
Maker of the tune,
Give me a desire—
Bless me with a boon.