Classic Poem

In any medium except that of verse
Forthwith I could enlighten you. Too terse,
And as it were compact, this form of art —
Which handles the finished product only — the hard
Master-material of selected sound.
The intellect has its workshops underground;
We cannot go back, out of this dance of words,
To become the teacher. Here we behave as birds —
The brain-that-sweats offends , it breaks our spell,
You do see that? we really must not smell
In this r├┤le: it is aristocratic but
Cudgel your brains in this case you must not .
So you will understand that argument,
Except in intent stylistic, or to invent
A certain pattern, is out of the question here.
I can only release, as elegant as deer,
A herd of wandering shapes, which may go straight,
But are just as likely to have grandly strayed,
Before we write finis out of sight and reach.
I cannot help this. It is noblesse oblige.