Verse, be not prose, though some have called you
Jingly and silly, for, you are not so,
For, those whom you think, you overthrow
With inanity, no, this is not true.
From rhyme and love and every grace you own
Much pleasure flows—sing your song anew
And soon the best will appreciate your tone,
Will love and know that verse is ever true,
Whether it sing of fate, chance, kings, or desperate men,
Or with poison, war and vanity dwell,
For, as prose goes why cannot you tell as well?
Why should you be ashamed by comparison?
One brief rhyme can say as much, I think,
As a novel. You save not only souls, but ink.
