Ah, the rash poet
      Having another go at
       Sounding glib or even shallow
        While expressing his heart's depth
         Like expressing pus from a boil
        Trying to make it appear marshmallow
         Holding at bay his own mortal breath
          Wrapping nuggets of meaning in pretty word foil

     One must, I feel, at times step out
    From the shell under which, like a terrible lout
   He has hidden his light
    From foe and from friend
     Blow the trumpet, blow it low, from your depth
      Not heavy, not strong, not weakly, nor light
       Not softly, and certainly don't blow hard
        Save your breath