I write you youthful poetry, with rhymes
Determined independently of sense,
And phrases hyperbolic. In the chimes
Of over-ringing verse, I hear the tense
Ecstatic clamorings of puppy love
Which cannot self-imagine as mature
But must be, as it is, the image of
What later passions will deny they were:
Enthusiastic and unthinkingly
Prepared to swear to anything. Should I
Condemn this feeling, or at least this verse,
As representing what I shouldn't be?
Or can I safely to myself rehearse
The shopworn practice of a lover's sigh?
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