My Fanciful Maiden
I implore,I implore the westerly gust
To take me or at least my pendowned ink
Many a time-my fingers are encrust
Traveled never so far, barely within a page's brink
In a chilling hour when the candle shines bright
And while the poor soul begins to sway
I snug a pen like a primed gallant knight-
To beguile my darling; possibly fanciful any-way
O I implore,I implore my fanciful maiden
You were,ever were to whom I indite
Gals of ink and bales of pages are laden
Untill the lantern bug took their earliest flight--
Though the countless letter I engraved
The means and will of it was never heard
Every is being trodden and depraved
In every swarty night mine visions are blurred and Interred
I was,never was the flower that sprung about
But the gloomy cloud of June;what I was merely a lout
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