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So often when bent on other chores,
he calls to me and sweetly sings,
in such profusion my hand aches,
to take down the thoughts he brings.
Why is it thus when time is short
And the need to speak is drawing near
He stays away for days and days
and puts me in a state of fear,
that he will never sing again,
Withholding all his golden verse
And leave me with some vile discord of
doggerel or something worse.
For here I sit with pen in hand
Poised, and avid for his voice
Suggesting high-flown cantos that
might end up as my final choice.
The blank pages stares me in the face
And mocks my inability
To fathom out a single line
That could be stretched to poesy.
Is he Inspiring someone else?
I fear that he with wanton glee
Will let them give the prizes to
Some lucky women that isn't me.
