I thought it odd that the little Roy Campbell poem which I posted below had eleven lines. I mean, that's kind of random, isn't it? You think it's going to be some sort of sonnet, but it isn't.

Looking through my own poems, though, I found several eleven-liners. Weird...
Here's one of them:

Evening Finds Me by the Library Window

The sun falls into the surge of trees
and pulses in the flickering
airy currents of the leaves.
Falls the cool light of underseas.
The sun-warmed cherry desk exhales
a ghost of color, precipitously darkens,
and a faint coolness palls the room.
The soul flutters a little in its nest,
then settles, foreknowing like the rest,
but comprehending not the test that comes,
the thing that flight entails.

I wrote this in Christendom's library last year, when I was supposed to be studying. How could anyone not stare out this window?