How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,—
How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,—
  When a-toddling on the floor
  Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?

Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
  But to write one seems to me
  Quite superfluous to be,
When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.

Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
  Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
  Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.