One Fifty Four

Can you imagine -- him -- whose perfect verse
has filled our language, phrase by quoted phrase;
was he disposing of some unknown curse?
One hundred fifty four: each will amaze
and humble you with effortless refrain.
His words jump off the page and spring has sprung...
was there a point to two, or three, what gain
was there in sonnet after sonnet sung?
Mere mortals cannot hope to equal these,
yet we continue, laughable at best.
Exuberant when words appear at ease,
and stanzas rest where they're supposed to rest.
What use comparing him to summer day?
We wallow in our discontent and pray.