In lilting voice I would sing in rhyme
Each verse for a poem unwritten
In syllabilic count and timbre kept
The mind holds firm to customs old

But yet "new schools" forget old ways
Theirs is the "modern" class at best
Rhyme nor rhythm, no reason or right
The meaning laid bare on the page

Taste is such an aquired sense
Or should lamb be found as beef?
And as is art not from the brush
But from the artist's colours spread

Each to their own, or all for one
The skill - to find something for all
If one should conform to just new ideas
Then the craft of poetic rhyme will fall