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.