The Wordsmith - Apr 4, 5
Yes! day and night, inside my roaring shop,
pounding my heavy hammer ceaselessly
against the hardened anvil Poetry,
I ply tough steel into a pleasant shape.
Working words cleansed of cheap and easy trope
which would debase my art’s due quality,
I craft a blade, or else a spade, to be
the prying prod of clever penmanship.
But sometimes, in the silence of sorrow,
my forge sits still, uncluttered and unmanned.
My arduous tasks exhaust me, and I say
“Let what labour’s left be done tomorrow!”—
For when my mind and vision wallow bland,
It’s best to rest and recover for a day.
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