Children of the Night

Sonnet

     The master and the slave go hand in hand,
     Though touch be lost.  The poet is a slave,
     And there be kings do sorrowfully crave
     The joyance that a scullion may command.
     But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand
     The mission of his bondage, or the grave
     May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save
     The perfect word that is the poet's wand!

     The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes
     Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones;
     But shapes and echoes that are never done
     Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes
     Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones
     The crash of battles that are never won.