Deft poetry may have e'en yet its place,
Yet it, compared to you, does surely pale,
As you lend what's ineffable to grace
And thus make Beauty far to blessed to fail.
To poetry, you are objection's end:
You validate that bard who would indite
The one with whom he'd happily contend,
Should to contend solicit quaint delight.
Therefore, I celebrate your day of birth,
As I (beyond inditing) yet would share
What proves too good to be of measured worth;
What (absent light) begs yet my eyes to stare.
Deft poetry would (in its given sphere)
Dare calibrate (precision damned) what's dear!