I find myself at desk with pen
And sudden urge to write again,
With mind to irrigate a soil
Left barren for more urgent toil.
This craft or pastime, once my strength,
Neglected now for such a length
Of time that I had grown unused
To crafting simple pleasure produce.
I stressed too much the use of words
And phrases, images and sounds
To please sterner critics rather
Than liberate my caged soul.
It matters not that I propose
To vary simple and verbose,
Nor that I sometimes rhyme my verse
Or mix the rambling with the terse.
To frolic with Simplicity,
Yet hold hands with Complexity,
Is not an infidelity
To my fair maiden, Poetry.