Where have you gone, my latent muse?
Were I some sculptor, dreaming how to use
A gleaming block of marblestone
I’d certainly have long abused
My brain and moaned and groaned
To paw my raw material
Into some shapeless mass of clay.
Were I some painter, with a poor display
Of paints stuck in a serial
Repeating of some sad success
Distraught to find the lines so blurred
And nothing but dour distress:
As I am not these things, it still occurs
To me the blank pages lying in sight
Will stay unwritten all the night.
August 11
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