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I SEIZED my pen in frenzied mood,
Some tuneful strains to write;
But ere their form took fixed shape,
All vanished from my sight.
And long I strove to call again
Those lines so vague and fair;
And still my mind the blanker grew,
And dark as midnight air.
I looked up to the heaven above,
Then at the earth below;
I dipped my pen again in ink,
But still it was no go.
I sought to aid my tongue-tied muse,
And got a book of hymns;
And lest for words I then should lack,
I oped "Soule's Synonymes."
And now a pause with pen in air,
And deep excogitation,
When, lo! there beamed upon my soul
The following lucubration: -
"Ideas like to the fleecy clouds
Oft seen on summer day,
Fair shadows drifting through the sky
In evanescent play,
"Strange forms and shapes of things unknown" -
But here full short I stopped;
And down from the fair fleecy clouds
To hard bare earth I dropped.
And notwithstanding helps and hymns,
And every strained endeavor,
My muse is still a voiceless muse,
And mute I fear forever.
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