Ii

I ponder on the form, and truth to tell, ’Twere scarcely to be deemed a sonnet chain Which did not in its forged length contain Some turn contemplative, where for a spell The smith might lay his hammer by, to dwell Upon the pattern, lest the octet strain The content, or the sextet court in vain A bigger thought than it can compass well. And oft when to the varying interplay Of partnered sounds I strive thought’s flower to train Upon this trellis, the perplexing way By lucky chance of rime lies sudden plain, And I cry out with Agathon: τέχνη τύχην ἔστερξε καὶ τύχη τέχνην.

HESEPE, 23rd June