I wrote some foolish verses once
On love. Unhappy churl!
The metre makes me shudder still,
I sent them to a girl.
I know that girl, and if I should,
Like Byron, wake some day
To find Fame written on my brow,
She'd give those lines away.
So now I have to watch myself
Each hour. Oh, hapless plight!
For if I should be great, of course,
Those lines would come to light.