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Of late, my pen has not been in hand It was as if my mind was blank,
For a writer that's hard to understand, Excess work for it I thank.
And in those non-idle non-productive days,
When paper was not touched by pen, I found that overwork never pays, I decreed solemnly then:
That written greats of times gone by Were great though they were poor,
Though great may never be humble I, Of not being rich Im sure!
And so to write, time I vow to make For work is the folly of fools,
Whop work not for need but for works own sake,
And they’re never known in schools, Or their books, as so never be known I may be, From such pages never be read, My words explored, the meaning or them to see, By students, when I am dead... But twill be worth it one day... If only for a while...
One reads these words with which I play, And it causes them to smile!
Can I see if I look in the distance All that I wish to see... And is I could, I wonder would What was seen be good for me?
For all want to see and all want to know Everything everywhere about everyone But we need not to know, and so life will not show Everything that around us has gone on.