Classic Poem

Erratic the metre,
And errant the rhyme;
The form might be neater,
And feater the time,
And yet thy sweet verses could hardly be sweeter,
Though polished the metre,
And perfect the rhyme.

I will not correct them
As though they were prose,
To carve and dissect them
Were rending a rose.
Thy charm and thy beauty preserve and protect them,
I will not correct them
As if they were prose.