Oh, that my pen could form thoughts not spoken,
and paper bend to shapes as yet undone!
Then evíry hill would sprout verse as token,
and evíry bough sway in lyrical tongue!
Poet among gods then surely Iíd seem;
Let Shelleyís "Skylark" die fuel for fire.
When great Tennyson and Byron gleam
Then none, save I, will bear words for hire.
This pen, its magic, will pour out a book
and harden the ghosts my mindís eye had sought.
Dear Muse, keep fast in my throat like a hook,
Ďtis Romantics' dear souls fortune has bought.
Now, I alone have evíry last letter!
Still, it seems Keats might have phrased it better.