October 20, 2007
Dear Lynn, I haven’t met you yet, and yet,
Because of your groom’s frank and free oblations
In sonnet sequences or while we drink,
In permanent print or on the internet,
I write to share my cheerful approbations
For what I cannot know but may still think.
An age like ours forbids discourse on taste,
Either because it “don’t” sound democratic,
Or just because the sheer “ubiquitousness”
Of violence and vulgarity has laid waste
To standards; we stow our judgments in the attic.
But please indulge me. Let me tell you this, Miss:
If Ernie’s store of trivia, wit, and words is full,
As Plato says, it still took you to make him whole.
—James Matthew Wilson
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