Desiring timeless lines of verse to write,
I place upon my desk a sheet of paper
Empty and blank,—a void of ghostly white,—
Stare at the flame that leaps upon the taper,
Dangle but loosely in my fingers’ grip
A pencil that I drag in aimless ways
Around the sheet, (so lightly touches the tip,
The sheet, once white, is now the lightest of grays),
And call upon the spirits of the dead,—
The poets old and great who penned sweet lines
Of potent poesy, read and still reread
By him who still for sweetest verses pines,—
That one may pluck a leaf from out their bay,
And drop to me what will be green alway.

O.O