Up from life’s saturnalia, and then
Shrink back a-shudder to my garret den,
Seeing no prospect of a glass of beer.
“What have I suffered, Siren, for thy sake!
What scorn endured, what happiness foregone!
What weariness and woe! What cruel ache
Of failure ’mid a thousand vigils wan!
Yet do I shrine thee as each day I wake.
Wishing I had another shirt to pawn.”
I smoked two large cigars over my sonnet before I finally got it straight. This in spite of the fact that I had a hundred and one other things to do. If the house had been burning I believe the firemen would have dragged me out muttering and puzzling over my sonnet. My rhymes bucked on me; and, though I had rounded up a likely bunch of words, I just couldn’t get them into the corral. Finally, with more of perspiration than inspiration, the thing was done.