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!
First published in The Bulletin, 8 April 1920
