The quieter I am through the day
The more I save for Slumber’s Forge,
Where all the things I have to say
Are cast in verse from Meter’s Gorge.
There’s little that I need to do
Except behold a fantasy:
Imagination’s set to brew
Upon the Flames of Poesy.
My words are dipped, tempered in full,
And hammered true by metaphors
That make the meanings pliable
According to the metered verse.
So all I have to work on then
Is test the balance of the weight
And with the mallet of my pen,
To gently tap and set it straight.
The days I spend in talking, though,
Become my nights of penury.
And Slumber’s Forge has naught to show
Upon my morning inquiry.