A valentine to his wife that night.
He thought of metre, he thought of rhyme.
'Twas a race between weary brains and time.
He tried to write as he used to when
His heart was as young as his untried pen.
He started a sonnet, but gave it up.
A rondeau failed for a rhyme to "cup."
And the old clock ticked his time away,
For the editor's mind would go astray.
He thought of the days when they were young,