The Unachievable

They say only a true master can write
A Petrarchan sonnet, Dear Beloved---
And they say syllabic meter is dulled.
I, a stupid, homely, and unschooled wight
Not schooled in the modern nonsense, will fight
To free pretentions of pedagogues, called
Weighty, and heady, and awesome, which led
To our modern art, where all verse is light.
I pause at every line; I see the pause
They say which interrupts the lay reader
When verse should be read like prose, naturally
Aspirated in our thoughts, for just cause
Have I to say they know not what tender
They deal in---all dealt artificially.