"COPY."
Some call the world a vale of tears,
And some a haunt of bliss—
"Copy" the world to me appears,
And all that therein is.
I loved, I hated, and desired,
Despaired, like other men—
And "copy" thus I have acquired,
Which still informs my pen.
Now, all the scenes whereon I look,
All human joy and woe,
Spontaneously as a book
Into fresh "copy" flow.
There is no pang too terrible,
No rapture too sublime,
To furnish forth an article
Or to suggest a rhyme.
I'd like a little while to break
My fetters lucrative,
To love again for Love's own sake,
For Life's own sake, to live.
To look upon the stars again
With no ulterior view.
Oh, aspiration wild and vain!
But—it is "copy," too!