A matter of metre

So many wonderful words we write,

When we dream of a seed and sow it.

A novel or sonnet may come to light

If we take the time to grow it.

And many are they but plenty are we

Who would yearn to be the poet.

Lovers embrace on the moon tonight

Should our pens' pretenses show it,

And an angel's wing will want for flight

Should the villain reveal what's below it

For limitless bliss or the fury of those

Who would yearn to be the poet.

From the dawn of man at the start of time

One would pick up a verse and bestow it

Upon thirsty mind set afire by a rhyme

A fine lyricist would overflow it

And words were like wine dripping down upon those

Who would dare to be the poet,

Or might care to undergo it

Remember the past or ignore the day

Come the troubadour, minstrel, and bard

Leaving doubt behind, keeping woe at bay

And distresses, disregard

When the words of a beautiful, dutiful voice

bring a healing to the scarred.

Very few children understand

And many who do outgrow it

The Raven, Silence, Fairy-Land

And his name, you surely know it

For it was Edgar Allan's hand

Which put the Poe in poet

And as a child, remarkable he

Was a poet and didn't even acknowledge the fact.