“A lyric possibility flitted past, singing quite close to his ear. Thank you, my land, for your most precious … I no longer need the sound “oticed”: the rhyme kindled life, but the rhyme itself is abandoned. And maddest gifts my thanks are due … I suppose “meshes” waits on the wings. Did not have time to make out my third line in the burst of light. Pity. All gone now, missed my cue.*”
–Nabokov “The Gift”
*Don’t you just hate it when this happens.