Poets, Poesy

Impossible almost, to believe,
That the great John Donne, it is said,
Wrote for amusement and his friends to relieve.
What great gifts this metaphysical man did receive
From a God-muse his talents did he near thieve.
Prolific in more ways than one,
A minor sin, an errant abduction almost brought him undone;
Offspring by the dozen, a tendency to deceive
Pardoned by stately seers and peers
Ultimately adored by all in thrall
And forever a resident, probable president
Of our literatures’ greatest hall.