There is no pow’r beneath the sun
Can still a young man’s hand
From scrawling miles of rambling verse
When springtime fills the land.
Let him see bees or daffodils,
And poems fill his brain,
With bumbling meter and cliched rhyme
That no flesh can restrain.
You may as well reverse the clock
And return to winter dark,
Than staunch the prose that gushes forth
When once he hears the lark.
I do not write of birds or trees
Or sunshine or the dew,
But I cannot help but burst with song
When once I think of you.
