I know nothing of poetry My only effort is to write The lines that drift down into me From a source that seems to say, 'Pick up the pen now, quietly.' And for a little while I wait For the words to congregate Into a harmony of form. The rhythm comes, sometimes the rhyme. I try not to think too much For mind likes to interfere Believing always it knows best. Better to be silent as a pond Receptive to the skidding stone Whose momentary splash and skip Is nothing more than surface noise And troubles not the deep below.
Poems Undated (1727)
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