It’s
thanks to you I’ve played Sir William’s frets,
and
gratitude the more I’ve my own tried;
For
though my art does want, why so regret
that Art
the more by Try’s not amplified?
Forgive
then, distant friend, the handicaps
that
pressed to dance with words have only limped
graceward
with halting measure, and left scraps
of ideas
trailing. With enjambments crimped
together,
lines will multiply to hay-
stacks
where well-ordered rows of shocks should be;
A clumsy
first harvest, that chaffs away
the
kernels of new-sought ability.
(The
shoots that do sprout later sha’n’t be weeds:
Such
wasted thoughts of new crop are the seeds.)
