Inspirational Accident

The poet to his garden went To ease a potent, lingering grief; He thought his sadness might be spent If he could eulogize a leaf. The sunshine was as fresh as mint. The crystal dew, the virgin morn And some lone songbird dumbly lent Their succor as relief of scorn. And so he penned the songbird's trill, Perfecting it in hours late, Not knowing that the sweet and shrill Melodious call was for a mate; Not knowing, too, that what he wrote Beneath the fire muses sent Was word for word and note for note Exactly what the songbird meant.