A somber sonneteer, with iron pen,

And pity weighing heavy in his heart,

Prescribed salvation for his countrymen

In words that were his honor and his art.

But gravel under heel was sharp with pain.

Their minds were cold with unfamiliar fear.

Their maps had lied. Their thinking hurt the brain,

So no one heard the prophet sonneteer.

When fifty years washed under in time's wave,

His countrymen taught children in the schools

To think that sonnet was a rock to save

The noble from an undertow of fools.

But they, because it dinned in every head,

They wished the poet had been early dead .

WITHOUT HONOR

A somber sonneteer, with iron pen,

And pity weighing heavy in his heart,

Prescribed salvation for his countrymen

In words that were his honor and his art.

But gravel under heel was sharp with pain.

Their minds were cold with unfamiliar fear.

Their maps had lied, and thinking hurt the brain,

So no one heard the prophet sonneteer.

When fifty years washed under in time's wave,

His countrymen taught children in the schools

To think his sonnet was a rock to save

The noble from an undertow of fools.

But they, because it dinned in every head,

They wished the poet had been early dead.