How often will a sonneteer ignore How few the couples truly are who bask In fragrant paradise! How many more Resorted to their serenades to mask Screams of the neighbours’ child indoors, and out, Kiss’d midst the midges, spent their afternoon In humid traffic jams, or yawn’d throughout Untimely trysts beneath a gibbous moon. How seldom will a sonneteer admit The humble, unpoetic benefit Of muddling through together in the face Of tiresome toil. Sing therefore, Muse, the place In actual seduction and romance Of serendipity and happenstance.
Perhaps this overstates the popularity of poetic idealism, but sometimes imaginary lovers need taking down a peg.