Coleridge knew it; Longfellow, too.
Wordsworth eschewed it; Byron turned blue.
Poe went darker, wouldn’t be caught dead.
Wilde said: Who needs it? Let’s paint the town red.
Browning and Pound, Ginsburg and Blake,
Plath and Milton wouldn’t make the mistake.
Frost’s woods were yellow,
Whitman’s grass green.
But a rhyme with “orange”
Will never be seen.
Vote for your favorite poem and story at cltampa.com/writingcontest through March 3.
