"A Sonnet on a broken Squash Racket written in the Romantic Tradition"

Thou, racket, gleeful in dividing air,
Did serve me well as I delivered serves
Which missed their marks by my, and not thy, err.
A Prince by name; thou rightly Prince deserved
A better fate than that which thou hath seen,
By me to whom through sweat and blood were bound.
For in that moment I allowed a mean
Intention to o’ercome my mind, my hand;
Against the ground thy head I swung, I crack.
I broke thee racket—only me to blame.
Oh, guilty act which fills my soul with black,
What in thy shame calls forth a better game?
Where past serves erred, now guilty serves do score,
With thy cracked head, I play like ne’er before.