HOW many evenings, walking soberly Along our street all dappled with rich sun, I please myself with words, and happily Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run; And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask, Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes And traitor hand that fails the well loved task! Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft But he had put away his sleep, his ease, The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed To brood upon such thankless tricks as these? And yet, such joy does in that craft abide He greets the paper as the groom the bride! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ODYSSEY: THE GARDENS OF ALCINOUS by HOMER THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL A WORD TO THE WEST END by THOMAS ASHE BEAUTY MAKES US HAPPY by PHILIP AYRES THE LAST MAN: DREAM OF DYING by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |