My Poet's Lament
In the wilderness, my cry
Echoes back at me:
My poetry wanes.
And sinks into oblivion
Like the thousand and one discordant notes
That issues out of my braying mouth.
Where are you now, Wordsworth?
Are you vibrating in agony
In a spineless, sunless world?
Would that I had your fervour now.
Has it been murdered too?
Only my playful fancies now are aped
I live in this stifling modern world.
And infection is all around.
The muse has taken a vacation.
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