Th eMi s s i n gRh y m eby Henry Tyrrell.Illustration by E. V. Nadherny.THE trouble was, no word would rhyme withmonth.And that was why my lovely birthday sonnet,Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it.“Oh, fairest day of springtime’s fairest month”—Thus I began, and there I stuck at “month.”Her birthday is the first of May.“Dog-gone it!”I cried, “I can’t go on, now I’ve begun it—Unless, perchance, I write of May theone-th.”Then went I to my lady love, with allThe story of my tenderness and trouble—Explained how words in Poetry must double,And how my sonnet’s sweetness turned to gallBecause I couldn’t find a rhyme for “month.”She laughed, and lithped the answer—“You’re a dunth!”“She laughed and lithped the answer—‘You’re a dunth!’”
by Henry Tyrrell.
Illustration by E. V. Nadherny.
THE trouble was, no word would rhyme withmonth.And that was why my lovely birthday sonnet,Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it.“Oh, fairest day of springtime’s fairest month”—Thus I began, and there I stuck at “month.”Her birthday is the first of May.“Dog-gone it!”I cried, “I can’t go on, now I’ve begun it—Unless, perchance, I write of May theone-th.”Then went I to my lady love, with allThe story of my tenderness and trouble—Explained how words in Poetry must double,And how my sonnet’s sweetness turned to gallBecause I couldn’t find a rhyme for “month.”She laughed, and lithped the answer—“You’re a dunth!”
THE trouble was, no word would rhyme withmonth.And that was why my lovely birthday sonnet,Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it.“Oh, fairest day of springtime’s fairest month”—Thus I began, and there I stuck at “month.”
T
HE trouble was, no word would rhyme withmonth.
And that was why my lovely birthday sonnet,
Meeting this obstacle, was wrecked upon it.
“Oh, fairest day of springtime’s fairest month”—
Thus I began, and there I stuck at “month.”
Her birthday is the first of May.“Dog-gone it!”I cried, “I can’t go on, now I’ve begun it—Unless, perchance, I write of May theone-th.”
Her birthday is the first of May.
“Dog-gone it!”
I cried, “I can’t go on, now I’ve begun it—
Unless, perchance, I write of May theone-th.”
Then went I to my lady love, with allThe story of my tenderness and trouble—Explained how words in Poetry must double,And how my sonnet’s sweetness turned to gallBecause I couldn’t find a rhyme for “month.”She laughed, and lithped the answer—“You’re a dunth!”
Then went I to my lady love, with all
The story of my tenderness and trouble—
Explained how words in Poetry must double,
And how my sonnet’s sweetness turned to gall
Because I couldn’t find a rhyme for “month.”
She laughed, and lithped the answer—“You’re a dunth!”
“She laughed and lithped the answer—‘You’re a dunth!’”
“She laughed and lithped the answer—‘You’re a dunth!’”