A Word For It

'Scorn not the sonnet.' Well, I reckon not, I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle, Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot, An so it made my Pegasus to trot His morning lap what time he heard the bell; An so it made the poem stuff to jell- To mix a met.-an so it boil'd the pot. Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit! I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats. 'Scorn? ' Nay, I love thy fine symmetric grace. In sonnets one knows always where to quit, Unlike in other poems where one cheats And strings it out to fill the yawning space.