I recently read a poem by Edmund Spenser. Amid all the modern work I read, I had forgotten how good he was. The work focused on a deer. The language was exquisite and fresh, not a spare word and all woven into iambic pentameter. Reading work like this that is so well crafted, I feel totally inadequate and guiltily aware that working in free verse, tough as it is, is nothing compared to the craftsmanship of working within the constraints of  metre and rhyme. Indeed in Spenser’s hands it is no constraint at all, rather a tool.