To think of the verses that are lost, As must happen to other writers too, I wonder how to sleep and write they got, Or of lost work like me did they rue? The stillness of my sleep held brain, Matches the stillness of the night, I must get myself a Dictaphone, Record the thoughts I don't want to rise for to write! Dark hills and dark night foreboding You'll not find me there at all
But there are those on both good and bad days, These hils, by the mane of heaven, they'll call!
For to walk in but ones own company To climb to the top to look down,
As in wonder, as if it were a kingdom,
And you were its king with no crown...