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A sonnet, ere the days of Merrill Moore, Was looked upon as an accomplishment— To quarry blocks of words from mother lodes, Haul them away from where they were before, Hammer and chisel them till they were bent Into new combinations, different modes, Then rearrange and polish, make them shine, Garnishing fresh ideas in fresher style. So hours and days, and sometimes weeks and years, Were spent to make one sonnet superfine. Great poets made a few in a long while— A task so difficult it caused them tears. This has been rectified by Merrill Moore, His day is wasted that yields not a score.
How is it that this buccaneer of sonnets Continues almost profligate of rhyme Since he has other full-time occupations, As helping those confused with bees in bonnets (And psychiatric treatment feeds on time) By balancing depressions with elations. For recreation, when not writing verse, He
Poet and Psychiatrist, Merrill Moore, M.D.: A Critical Portrait with an Appraisal of Two Hundred of His Poems. JAMA. 1955;159(14):1421. doi:10.1001/jama.1955.02960310085039
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