Classic Poem

" Here is a place where poems might be made. " ...
But in the linden arch such matins twittered,
Fish swam such curves beneath the balustrade,
The poet paused and found himself embittered.
Stubble was savoury by the grasscut edge,
The sun decanted Meursault-coloured shine,
And shamed by random mosses on the ledge
He corked the inkpot and uncorked the wine.

Here every shape outrhymes the poet's wit:
In every view such harmonies are spoken
New-joinered verses will not do, he fears.
Bring out some strong old sonnet, polished fit,
Plain as these grainy panels, dark and oaken,
Rubbed and sweetened by Burgundian years.