In melodies, my inspiration springs,
Yet harps and sad guitars are all I hear;
But if the dove was clipped and had no wings
No longer could I write nor shed a tear.
A certain type of woe brings words to life,
But other sorts can stem the river's course.
How very odd, to see the sun in strife
And still find peace amidst the thorns and gorse.
Has Mother played a wicked trick on us?
Would she, resplendent be, with teary rain?
Would she amass her brooks with brine and thus
Allow us all our poetry again?
Oh, happy quill, now dripping globs of blood!
Oh, Nature, how you glorify the flood!