I've lost my turn for writing verse
On any theme that offers
(Line number 3 should end with "purse"
And number 4 with "coffers"):
I cannot get ideas to flow
In rhythmic phrase, and snappily:
I always could, a while ago --
But not to-day, unhappily.
Try as I will to air my views
In tuneful form of chatter,
I fail to move the blessed Muse
To aid me in the matter;
No inspiration she imparts,
Though I implore her frantic'ly.
(I think I'll end this line with "hearts,"
And this one with "romantic'ly.")
I'm coining words to make the rhyme --
The rhyme bereft of reason:
Fain would I write of Love sublime,
But Love is out of season.
On me the Muse I woo in vain
Has cast a spell hermetical;
But soon the Spring will break again,
And then I'll wax poetical.
A bard benumbed by winter cold
Blames not the Muse; he's humble,
(And, darling, I am growing old,
And therefore musn't grumble.)
Spring, with its onions and its flowers
And birds a-chirping pleasantly,
Will bring me back my rhyming powers --
And Spring will happen presently.
First published in The Bulletin, 26 June 1919.
