Strange Truth and Beauty are enemies,
Treading forever on each other's toes!
Strange rhymes are always made of that which is
Too false or silly to be said in prose!
Now here's a sonnet by our village poet
"Inscribed to Kate," in most romantic style,
Whereas,—and one with half an eye might know it,—
He means Sophronia Tompkins, all the while.
He sings of "golden curls." If fiery tresses
Had heat to match their hue, her hair would burn;—
He mentions "airy grace,"—while she possesses
A form as shapeless as an old-time churn,
Heavens! after this I never shall inquire
Why people always call the poet's song a LYRE!


This poem is in the public domain.