I’ll pretend that she likes poetry
So that my lines will flow with ease,
And find no dam in knowing she
Is yawning — not intrigued or pleased.
I’ll pretend she cares for rhythmic feet
That each should ring euphonious —
About each line’s fluidic beat
That each should sound harmonious,
Then when a wind shall come to blow
The candle of my genius out,
Or trip me up and lay me low
And mire me in the ditch of doubt,
Knocking the feather from the hand,
Of slumping genius paralyzed,
Mocking my high aspiring plans
Some worthy theme t’immortalize,
I’ll think of her and find the strength,
To stay undoused, to stand defiant,
And smith with fire th’entire length
Of lines iambic, keen and pliant.
For she, I know, would have it so —
That they should rise to beauty’s height,
And to their ripe perfection grow,
Would be no doubt her deep delight.