Now I plunge my pen against the page
and scribble toward a purpose unperceived,
for now, in breathful, placid frame,
I am no more a poet than a rose;
but images I view, although receptive
to my bid (my muse is busied elsewhere,
nursing other selves), and I desire
exercise, enveloped by pleasant melancholy.
Enabled to imbue with silhouette of life
a bit of pesty matter, from so faint
a state as this, I would label it as mine
(ostensibly): mine to brag of, mine to burn;
but when I feature feeling from the dream
it flies from me, like writing on a pond.
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