Of Vers De Soci­ete opens with a point­ed response to Mr. Gift­ed Hop­kins, whose poet­ic attempt is cri­tiqued not out of mal­ice, but out of a desire for refine­ment. The form he attempt­ed, though seem­ing­ly light, demands more than charm—it calls for a sub­tle mas­tery of tone, wit, and restraint. Unlike oth­er poet­ic expres­sions where emo­tion may roam free, soci­ety verse must flirt with feel­ing with­out ever los­ing its com­po­sure. The Greeks, despite their lyri­cal prowess, left lit­tle to this genre due to the rigid bound­aries imposed by their soci­etal struc­tures. The­ocri­tus, though admired for AEolic verse, offered only a hint of what soci­ety poet­ry could be—neatly wrapped com­pli­ments and tact­ful allu­sions. These ear­ly mod­els, more gifts than dec­la­ra­tions, laid the ground­work but rarely explored the intri­ca­cies of mutu­al emo­tion in cul­ti­vat­ed com­pa­ny.

Rome brought greater poet­ic con­fi­dence, yet its voice did not often suit the del­i­ca­cy of this form. Cat­ul­lus burned with inten­si­ty, craft­ing poems that over­flowed with fer­vor, while Horace pro­vid­ed a reflec­tive counterpoint—measured, urbane, and occa­sion­al­ly play­ful. His lighter odes came close to soci­ety verse in form but veered more philo­soph­i­cal in con­tent, always return­ing to the theme of life’s brevi­ty and the wise man’s calm. The demands of soci­ety verse, how­ev­er, go beyond even Horace’s grace; they require a tone that hov­ers between con­ver­sa­tion and con­fes­sion, inti­mate yet poised. Ovid, with his play­ful cadence and the­atri­cal flair, approached this style but too often set­tled into uni­for­mi­ty. A poet can afford ele­gance or depth, but soci­ety verse must float—never too grave, nev­er too gid­dy, always pre­cise.

Mar­tial comes clos­er still, sea­son­ing wit with can­dor and punc­tu­at­ing dai­ly life with brief, bit­ing cou­plets. His econ­o­my of expres­sion offers a tech­ni­cal mod­el, yet the coarse­ness of his themes dis­qual­i­fies him from true finesse. Soci­ety verse must not wound; it must charm while observ­ing pro­pri­ety. A poet ven­tur­ing into this ter­rain must bal­ance intel­lect and emo­tion like a tightrope walker—any slip into vul­gar­i­ty or over­state­ment breaks the spell. To write well in this form is not to impress an audi­ence, but to cap­ti­vate a select few, as if whis­per­ing a secret in verse. The light touch, the veiled joke, the grace­ful retreat—these are its mea­sures of suc­cess. In this way, vers de soci­ete becomes more than poet­ry; it is a mir­ror of social grace ren­dered in lan­guage.

Hop­kins is gen­tly advised to observe before attempt­ing again. Not all tal­ents are suit­ed to every form, and this form, so seem­ing­ly effort­less, resists those who pur­sue it too eager­ly. There is poten­tial in his verse, the let­ter implies, but it must be pol­ished with more dis­cre­tion, more lis­ten­ing than speak­ing. Soci­ety verse lives in the space between inti­ma­cy and arti­fice, and to mas­ter it, one must feel deeply yet write light­ly. The finest exam­ples often appear tossed off, but they are as care­ful­ly com­posed as a son­net or an epi­gram. Poet­ry, like con­ver­sa­tion, ben­e­fits from know­ing when to pause. Hop­kin­s’s earnest­ness, if tuned with restraint, may yet find a place among those few who can wield ele­gance with­out excess.

In its con­clu­sion, the let­ter affirms that the true art of soci­ety verse is rare not because it lacks sub­stance, but because it hides its labor behind ease. It nods to con­tem­po­rary prac­ti­tion­ers who under­stand this qui­et discipline—those who avoid loud metaphors or over­wrought emo­tion and instead offer some­thing clos­er to music in a minor key. Just as fine eti­quette does not announce itself, so too must this kind of poet­ry feel nat­ur­al, inevitable, and refined. It is poet­ry for those who have some­thing to say, and the good sense to say it beau­ti­ful­ly, briefly, and with a smile.