I’ve longed to be poetic for a week.
My longings are intense, did you but know it,
And now I come your kind advice to seek.
Each day I’m riming, dictionaries buying;
I cull from books each sweet poetic flower;
But though like any furnace I am sighing,
I really can’t do anything but scour—
Scour, my Poet,
Scour, my Poet,
I really can’t do anything but scour.