And ere I put my thought to words,
And put to light the days obscure,
I pray to thee, O Muses, pure
At heart, to free like flying birds,
My spirit. Guide me through the maze
Of verse, in prose I find it sour
To sum up seasons eighty four.
And ere I think of myriad ways
Of form, of theme, of character,
To intertwine with grace my wit,
A storm brews up. I'm caught betwixt
Those williams four, Milton's splendor
And Chaucer's pace. With troubled mind,
I set to write and truth to find.
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