• Of life, of love, t'will never speak
    these lips ne'er part for matters meek
    And strife, what of? Quills serve to seek
    lest naught they find a pattern's peak?

    A rose by any other name
    can serve but only for one's shame
    Arise, fond poet, art thou lame?
    Canst thou overcome one's pain?

    No! Through yonder window breaks
    inspiration blinded toward one's stakes.
    Ho! Risen by the body's quakes,
    tremors present in her wake.

    A muse is what this man must find,
    a well in which his craft resides.
    Amused is he in one's own mind,
    by lover's soul he is defined

    The calls of "Forward Ho!" have kept
    thine mind, from Death, bereft
    What walls yon Romeo have leapt
    to find himself a Juliet

    What purpose doth this pen now keep,
    when man is lack of words, and weeps?
    When poet far removed from sleep
    hath not the walls for which to leap?

    The words, transparent, can't be borrowed
    no loans, no payments on the morrow
    Woe is he, who lives by sorrow,
    by rose, by orchid, by the mallow.

    Tis he whose lips can scarcely part--
    --for they are sealed by joyful art.