I cry aloud and curse my pallid page
no words I write, but slowly turn to rage,
as barren, bleak and silent as the grave.
Upon the stormy ocean of my mind
from pounding waves of thought no rest I find,
but drowning words that I can scarcely save.
Then as the sun deserts the dying day,
my page, my mind, is as the evening, grey;
and quiet comes a calm and peaceful bliss:
As words flow freely from my mind, my pen
too quickly fills my empty page, and then,
what melancholy purpose now is this?
How strange it is, how odd, and yet so right
that words that hid by day, be ever bold at night.