Meter

In the quiet workshop of the world we trace,
A silver thread called metre, straight and true—
It measures gardens, streets, and outer space,
Binding the vast to the familiar hue.

Yet metre also walks the poet’s line,
Where iambs rise like footsteps on the dew,
And trochees fall, a heartbeat, soft and fine,
While dactyls dance in triplets, bright and new.

From Saxon roads to sonnet’s measured sigh,
The same simple span does double duty serve—
It quantifies the earth beneath our sky,
And shapes the song that human hearts observe.

So honour, then, this double‑edged refrain:
Both length and rhythm, in one metre’s reign.