I saw a Melancholy Wasp
Upon a Purple Clover Knosp,
Who wept, 'The Poets do me Wrong,
Excluding me from Noble Song-
Though Pure am I and Wholly Crimeless-
Because, they say, my Name is Rhymeless!
Oh, had I but been born a Bee,
With Heaps of Words to Rhyme with me,
I should not want for Panegyrics
In Sonnets, Epics, Odes and Lyrics!
Will no one free me from the Curse
That bars my Race from Lofty Verse?'
'My Friend, that Little Thing I'll care for
At once,' said I- and that is wherefore
So tenderly I set that Wasp
Upon a Purple Clover Knosp.