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