He sits alone with pen in hand,
gold lamplight stills the evening,
and thinking on life's journey hence
begins poetic weaving.
When in the midst of contemplate,
aglow with Heaven's light,
anew from night's horizon falls
a fragrant, flowing sight.
A lovely maid of fairest form,
enwrapped in satin strands,
draws nigh and with her gentle touch
pours peace into his hands.
And with her kiss upon his brow
from lips of fragile pink,
contentment flows as whispered dawn
drains sorrow from his ink.
And, lovely verse and sonnets penned,
exhausted now, he sleeps.
His muse takes leave as once again
...for his poet's heart, she weeps.
[This message has been edited by Meadowmuse (edited 06-24-2000).]