Sonnet: On Cowardice

A curious thing that lines are never writ

When the wax-winged glory still holds sway

And only when the sweeping rain fall comes

Will the poet’s hand to pen and paper stray.

Curiouser still, the dishonesty of they

Who, chased by the furies of their own mistakes,

To view the mangled chariot decline, yet

In crafting verse such sweet pains take.

Toilsome  though rhyme and metre count may be

While one writes, one does not feel.

We claim as genius what allowance is

To flee the torment of what is real.

Hence – so that from the truth I may turn my face

I once again my pen to lonely paper place.


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