Can there be magic in the written word
which this poor sonnet-writer’s art can catch,
or is that thought, for me, a bit absurd?
Great pens pierce hearts that mine can barely scratch.
Lend me thy Muse, O Shakespeare and thy quill!
Strike up thy genius once more, O Joyce!
Huge-hearted Robbie, teach me how to fill
my page with spells and in a lover’s voice.
See how my hopes of love begin to dwindle!
To conjour one small page is all I ask.
Her love, now cold for me, I'd fain rekindle.
I’d raise all ye dead poets for the task.