Half-waking and half-dreaming
   I sat me down to write.
The full thoughts flowing, gleaming,
   I wove them with delight.
With bardic runes empiric
   I wrought at fever heat
To make that lovely lyric
   The world must find so sweet.

The small typewriter clicking
   The tropes that softly rise,
A clock above me ticking,
   And dusk before my eyes;
The deft hands score my rhyming,
   I whisper: "This excels!
'Tis like the distant chiming
   Of seven holy bells."

So sped the lovely proem:
   The ringing lines flew fast.
I finished fast my poem,
   And inspiration passed.
I dreamed a little o'er it;
   Adoring it I smiled,
The parent I who bore it,
   And it my passion-child.

Alas! in my typewriter
   No sunlit verses shone,
And now, a mooning blighter,
   I mourn a pearl that's gone.
Past hope, like morning vapor,
   That never more is seen --
I'd run no sheet of paper
   Into the curst machine!

"Eddyson"
The Bulletin, 8 April 1920, p36