I'd like to post the last stanza of J. V. Cunningham's "For My Contemporaries," which is missing, above:
But rage who will.
Time that procured me
Good sense and skill
Of madness cured me.
He was certainly a master of the short line! Here's another of his, "The Scarecrow"
His speech is spare,
An orchard scare
With battered hat;
Face rude and flat,
Whose painted eye
Jove's flashing doom
From broken sky
Can scarce illume:
The Thunderer
May strike his ear,
And no reply.
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