The Fallow Fields

When rhymes forsake me, my pen's then bled dry; and eloquent lines rich in metaphor die before the inkwell's used up, here and by: for the once-teeming storehouse reservoirs of song flee my page, though write in hope I try! “How to awaken the dead muse again?” I plead. “O what answer, what remedy are main: the keys to my mind's creative drain!?” So, in distress, to God I make my plea. I let the tired fields of my mind lie fallow: and as time passed, my pen regains its powers; so new strains sing unwan and unsallow, and antique odes on clouds and daffodil flowers may refresh this infant, newborn sonnet, with life from this present time, and planet.