THE LOST WORD
SEATED one day at the typewriter,
I was weary of a's and e's,
And my fingers wandered wildly
Over the consonant keys.
I know not what I was writing,
With that thing so like a pen;
But I struck one word astounding—
It flooded the sense of my verses,
Like the break of a tinker's dam,
And I felt as one feels when the printer
Of your "infinite calm" makes clam.
It mixed up s's and x's
Like an alphabet coming to strife.
It seemed the discordant echo
Of a row between husband and wife.
It brought a perplexed meaning
Into my perfect piece,
And set the machinery creaking
As though it were scant of grease.
I have tried, but I try it vainly,
The one last word to divine
Which came from the keys of my typewriter
And so would pass as mine.
It may be some other typewriter
Will produce that word again,
It may be, but only for others—
I shall write henceforth with a pen.
C. H. Webb.