"I wonder as I wander"
sounds like a melancholy sound
a mourning and a longing
"banishing the thoughts of day."
Thoughts of previous poets surround me
seclude me
surround me
evade me
"There is no peace for the wicked."

(The Greeks and Romans knew of this—
even their deities could not stop fighting.)

I fear it's my fault--
I chose to study the words of
"the grand old poets
whose distant footsteps echo
down the corridors of time"

Those bards sublime
wrote songs of praise.
The word-smithies in their
dark and Sun-starved dens,
closed from the
world of everyday men.

Their sounds and their songs
once I held to my heart,
repeating the phrases,
self-enchanting with metres
and achieving life's bliss with a word.
Or a phrase of words
In beautiful harmony
"Like the song of a lark"
Or the "rushing of a mighty wind."

Whatever those sounds may be.
The words are now fake to me
bloated with pretense,
smitten with pride;
Not things I want in my sight.

Who speaks my fancy now?
What will thrill my heart until I
can hardly stand it?

"Come, read to me some poem,
some simple, heartfelt lay
to soothe this restless feeling
and banish the thoughts of day"