in my craft or sullen art

the rules require metre sense and rhyme
the last is easiest in this smooth tongue
the sense alas is all too often wrung
out of the metre in this sodden clime
the master of these three alas is time
on which all hopes we've ever had are hung
both those we've hollered and ones unsung
we laugh and caper when we're at the prime
none but the bold will ever find the way
to the true verse that's inside every heart
and let the music that's held captive out
yet now when night has conquered day
we find the answer out by careful art
and tell the whole world with a merry shout