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Words Unspoken

Oh, that my pen could form thoughts not spoken,
and paper bend to shapes as yet undone!
Then ev’ry hill would sprout verse as token,
and ev’ry bough sway in lyrical tongue!

Poet among gods then surely I’d seem;
Let Shelley’s "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 mind’s eye had sought.
Dear Muse, keep fast in my throat like a hook,
‘tis Romantics' dear souls fortune has bought.

Now, I alone have ev’ry last letter!
Still, it seems Keats might have phrased it better.




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