I Vainly

I vainly scribble passing lonely time,
not poems, rather heart’s tired furlong,
no meter, symbol, rhythm, true in song,
unable to call it poem, call it rhyme,
to test my mettle, tried to meter chime,
yet what ever I did, it just went wrong,
no Keats or Frost, am slow, yet surely strong,
for dirty worm does spring a silk sublime;

the meter, rhythm, did capture song, not heart,
I know its lack of talent, those great go high,
in nature, people, vested little my dart,
then what can I ever write about nigh,
oh, little dewy drops of wondrous thought,
what shape, what words, will carry you away.

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