swift swish-stroke,
poetry pours on paper
O! but slow are words to come
yet in my head, they rise
(like bread)
and strike my senses dumb.
dip, dribble dip-dash,
prose prickles into place
with Haste! the words now duly rush
but in my heart, they fade
(like art)
from favour and suspense.
Alas! she's gone!
my muse has died!
and flown whence muses go.
when next,
my pen
will paper prick,
only the muses know.














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