Sweet daughter, when your eyes behold the parchment
And its concepts flood your gates
When its complexity warms your sentiment
And its fullness refuses to abate
Then, and only then, take your quivered quill to your side
And let it be filled with warmth and talent tonic—
Let it rush from your heart as Mercuric melodies rise
And be not swayed by the mechanics that come from it.
For the pen that’s dipped in the best of ink and thought
Is not master to the mind from whence the tonic flows
It is not sold or borrowed or lent or even bought
For it is the muse of your soul that truly knows…
Your heart, my daughter, is master of all.