A Word For It

'Scorn not the sonnet.' Well, I reckon not,
  I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle,
  Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel,
Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot,
An so it made my Pegasus to trot
  His morning lap what time he heard the bell;
  An so it made the poem stuff to jell-
To mix a met.-an so it boil'd the pot.

Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit!
  I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats.
    'Scorn? ' Nay, I love thy fine symmetric
      grace.
In sonnets one knows always where to quit,
  Unlike in other poems where one cheats
    And strings it out to fill the yawning
      space.