The Poet’s Conceit

A book of verses in my hand
I went my way apart
to some sequestered nook alone,
For enjoyment of art.

Anthologies are interesting,
But somehow there remains
An emptiness of soul within;
My hand the book disdains.

I may not be a poet grand,
Or speak the thoughts I frame
To please the bards of yesteryear,
or those today of fame,

But how can I refuse to try
My hand at verses too?
No other soul can feel or say
The things I do!