what curious eye does she turn to us all!
with such anticipation does the gilded pen hover over the parchment of human kind,
carefully awaiting each glory (each fall)!

how many clamour towards her,
how many raw, desperate voices shriek for attention,
how many anxious fingers upon her robe?

and yet how rarely moved, that waiting, inquisitive brow,
how rarely inspired to take a name, a date, an episode!

(of course, she makes her constant notes, but these are not what we remember)

those lucky few are branded to the page, tied irrevocably to this earth, to our minds, their names etched along our bones,
she points the ink-stained finger at those to be made immortal

of course, she is want to be fickle; she turns away the eager eye, and the song goes unsung
(lucky are those upon whom her attention is forced; think 1832)

be mindful of her, if you clamour;
feel the eyes on your back, the gaze at your heel,
write your name upon her scroll and into the sky.