Prisoner of Poetry - Mar 22

My bars the words, the prison guard my verse, Rattling the staves of this poetic cell, I struggle vainly, locked up in this jail. Yea, thus is my predicament, my curse. Oh, how jealously, you smirking blank verse, I look upon what freedom guides your quill; For formal phrasing does of me compel Stubborn structures—the styles which I rehearse. But, boldy bumbling, art is now arising! Walls becoming my score, and tallies tones, ?Confined to meter, bound by rigid rhyme, I yet find measures full of surprising Motifs. The modern poet at sonnets groans, But I, I do believe they’re quite sublime.