A little before dawn he’d sit and muse,
reclining in his half-cocked easy chair,
his lamp unlit—attent to inner views
until a phrase emerged from who knows where
that set him on his way: he lit the light,
a low-watt bulb by his left hand, his pad
upon a lapboard, his pen held in his right,
knowing that now he’d go a little mad—
the cork was out, his brain began to fizz,
and efflorescent images appeared—
were they from somewhere else or were they his?
But then the spell had passed, his mind was cleared
and he looked at the page with wondrous awe
amazed and in delight with what he saw.