Sonnet -All Men Are Imperfect, Poets Too

Why blame the Poet for the mess he writes;
All flowers bloom from stage of bud only;
Why blame the priest for poor funeral rites?
That is the way we do pray, sing, may be;

No one is perfect in his work at first;
Hard-work and time and luck, his mettle tells;
None have always the same hunger and thirst;
Nothing on earth quite uniformly sells.

By training much, one can become perfect;
Not all are geniuses, born or made;
The most perfect at times has some defect;
We don't know if our glory shall fade.
But Poets write just for the sake of it;
And very soon, they write out of habit.

by Dr. A.Celestine Raj Manohar M.D.,

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.