That's it. There's no more sonnets. You change place. And I will be your Cyrano no more, There will be no more calling you 'Your Grace,' No speech, no other witty metaphor.
Extraordinary being, tender light Of clemency by which my pen is writing, Hand, blessed, that guides my path out of the night, And heals this chest, and calms this spirit's fighting,
A different kind of failure, Eliot said Of poetry – and won the Nobel prize. He preached humility, so no surprise. Hence, from under the shadow of his red