Saturday, May 16, 2015


                         I’ve never seen the slightest glimpse
                         Of elves or fairies, sprites or imps,
                         But happily I hear the Muse
                         Who brings each morning metered news:
                         I simply wait in readiness
                         With pen in hand for her to bless
                         My empty page with lines inspired
                         By sound and sense to be admired
                         Now and still in after years
                         As they ring true to others’ ears,
                         For that’s the hope of every verse
                         A poet turns, precise and terse:
                         That it will live immortally
                         When he long since has ceased to be.