So oft, so oft,
Doth sadness sulk my sultry mood
To feel and dream a dreary brood,
When jollity a shadow be
To grim subject of misery,
So fooled and foolish doth I feel
To think the spurts of mirth so real,
Or to smash them in the womb
By knowing destined they for tomb;
And so dear I willed this song be gay,
To write of love, write of play,
But – damned! – the words were falsely grown
To scribe a feeling so unknown!
If poems be but wordy burr
Clinging to readers’ winsome fur,
Strong I wish then to enforce
A song from joyous, happy source,
But, nay, a mirthful sound from morose throat
Is but a lie so plainly wrote –
Hence the notion sore confessed:
One should write what one knows best.

-Poyetikos