NOT YET A POET

Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown, In oblivion, all unknown; Still many more, perchance, I say, Float on in one unbroken lay— But ask me naught of where or when, Long as they ring in hearts of men! Dear friend, I say these words to you, Which through the ages will be true: Though I have power to combine These subtle rhymes of each sweet line— Yet, I shall never live to see, The title "poet" given me!