Spoken words will fail me.

As I go through my day, verses and rhymes flit through my mind; small phrases
and thoughts that seem to go together into an image that needs completion.

Then, when I return to my home after all the turmoil of the day and these thoughts
come once again to the front, I find that the image is clearer, that the day has filtered
much of the dross away.

This image, then, I try to piece together; sometimes pieces are missing and sometimes the
picture is not what I imagined it to be when first I glimpsed it.

So, this, then is such an image.

Hope, joy, peace, encouragement, multitudes of others. Strong emotions. As a stream flows
into a river which flows into the ocean, they flow into me, filling me and guiding me; carrying
me away.

::. Whistle .::
Alas, Muse, you play
a game most cruel

You demand too much of
this poor fool

My mind can'st make the
verse you desire

Perhaps it would be
best to hire

another to make thy
wish come true

For this poor rhyme
is all I can do

Whistling to aught
a tune quite merry

What should my thought
turn to but thy

sweet countance gazing
gently upon me

From the depths drawing
breath for thee

My steps quickening
Hoping but to see

a glimpse of thy
graceful beauty

For only a single day
What I would give

More than treasure
Living in bliss

As the poorest pauper
Your richness

to me a comfort
in this distress

For having seen light
causing the darkness

even deepest night
to seem less
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