I have heard my old man say,
As he smoked in mellow mood:
"I spine that 'better' may
Be but the enemy of 'good''."
I think upon the way I trained
Thews of youth to steely bands
Till life my heart I strained,
Walking on my silly hands.

Then again I've often writ
What I deemed was decent stuff;
Yet fiddled round with it,
Couldn't polish it enough.
Couldn't shape it to my mind.
Till I chucked it with a groan . . .
So  it is, I often find,
Better to let well alone.

Now a moderate am I
Poets my perfection plan;
To be an average I try,
Just a gentle jingle man.
And though upon my lack I brood,
I have found by acid test:
Better be content with 'good',
Than break one's heart for 'best'.