Vignette - Ix Poem by Matilda Betham

SONNET.


I am unskill'd in speech: my tongue is slow
The graceful courtesies of life to pay;
To deck kind meanings up in trim array,
Keeping the mind's soft tone: words such as flow
From Complaisance, when she alone inspires!
And Caution, with a care that never tires,
Marshals each tribe of thoughts in such a way
That all are ready for their needful task,
The moment the occasion comes to ask,
All prompt to hear, to answer and obey;
When mine, undisciplin'd, their cause betray,
By coward falterings, or rebellious zeal!--
And Art, though subtle, though sublime thy sway,
I doubt if thou canst rule us, when we feel!