NIGHT WRITER

           Before the break of dawn he rose
           To sit, consider and compose,
           While line by line his poem grows,
           And soon he’s in the very throes
           Of inspiration, as thought flows—

           His hand keeps moving, his brain glows,
           He says more than he knew he knows,
           Till finally the torrent slows,
           Letting his mind and poem close
           Just as at dawn the old cock crows.

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