Thou still incomplete bride of punctuation..|
Thou bastard child of short silence and slow speech..
Ozymandian semicolon, lying in the sand..
Thy decrepit, pointed symmetry sweetly does beseech..
What ink-drenched legend haunts about thy shape..
Of famed writers or mortals, or both..
In novels or the halls of Acad’my..|
What men or gods are these..? What linguists loth..
What mad pursuit..? What struggle to punctuate..
What pips and pixels..? What wild ad hockery..
Seen hes’tations are sweet, but those unseen..|
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pips, play on..
Not to the sensual eye, but, more numen..
Pip of the spirit, wit’s whits, un-alone..
Fair punct, upon the page, thou canst not leave..
Thy dots, nor ever can that page be bare..
Bold Writer, never judge it is amiss..
Though just two untripled—yet, do not grieve..
Thou shan’t fade, though thou knowst not treble bliss..
|For ever wilt thou mark, and it be fair..||!|