LONG ago beside my window, with an open manuscript,
I sat looking on a forest that with gold and brown was tipped,
Heeding nothing save the sighing of my own heart and the trees,
When into the open lattice like a whisper came the breeze.
Lingered at my lips a moment, past my temple then it crept,
And from out of my listless fingers an unfinished poem swept:
“Stop!” I cried unto a footman that was passing on the street,
“I will give you thirty shillings if you’ll bring me back that sheet.”
But he gazed into the heavens as he would upon a kite,