Who will believe my verse in time to come
if it were free? I wandered in the deserts
of inconsistent measure, between the tombs
of new troubadours forgetting the parts
that hold the whole together. The wise eye
of the critic finds convention full of grace
and very beautiful. In natural speech lies
the musical pattern that poets have faced
in every remembered era and every age:
no verse is free on the expressive tongue
of the dutiful man. These limitations rage
and tax the sound and sense into a song.
But, be it prose or poetry, in due time
we find that true freedom lies in rhyme.
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