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.)